


Of Gods and Men

by strid



Series: Hymns of the Blessed and Broken [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Religious, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gen, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Language, POV Alternating, POV Uchiha Itachi, POV Uchiha Sasuke, POV Uchiha Shisui, Politics, Shamanism, Uchiha Clan-centric, Uchiha Massacre
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 96,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25829164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strid/pseuds/strid
Summary: “They’ll never trust us.”Because the only thing more terrifying than the gods is the clan that wields them.
Relationships: Uchiha Itachi & Uchiha Sasuke, Uchiha Itachi & Uchiha Sasuke & Uchiha Shisui, Uchiha Itachi & Uchiha Shisui, Uchiha Sasuke & Uchiha Shisui
Series: Hymns of the Blessed and Broken [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089845
Comments: 83
Kudos: 128





	1. Regarding Caution, Control, and Cookies

**Author's Note:**

> First of all: thank you for clicking!
> 
> This is a religious/mythological interpretation of the Sharingan and its usage. In a nutshell, it essentially reimagines the Uchiha as shaman. The story is going to draw off some of the lore already present in Naruto, some Japanese religious traditions, and some things that are just from my own imagination. That being said, I’d like to emphasize that, while I’m drawing inspiration from a few real-world traditions, this is ultimately a made-up religion and I mean absolutely no disrespect to any actual beliefs or practices.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! And, of course, your feedback is welcome!

_The Sharingan, as a dojutsu, is greatly misunderstood. Most believe its power is derived from the chakra of its user, fueling the eye with rare and terrifying abilities. But that is hardly the truth of the matter. See, the Sharingan is really a conduit, a channel between the spiritual and earthly realms — its power extends far beyond the mundane capabilities of the person wielding it._

_After all, these eyes look upon the gods themselves._

. 

**Sasuke**

From a young age, Sasuke is taught stillness. Control. Learning how to breathe through his emotions, to keep his mind calm and tranquil. He meditates every day, right when he wakes up, and every night, right before he goes to bed. The life he lives is quiet and placid, filled with the chirring of insects, the trilling of birds, and the jingling of wind chimes.

And he absolutely hates it.

He can’t remember a single day when he hasn’t been painfully aware of how loudly he’s breathing, of how heavily his steps land. His entire clan keeps themselves still, _controlled_ , floating around like ghosts and barely interacting with the world around them, and so he is expected to follow suit. He would be happy to do it, he thinks, if someone would just tell him _why_. They all say the same thing when he asks, though, giving him a small smile and a light pat on the head: _you’re still too young to understand, Sasuke. But one day, you will learn_.

Well, _one day_ still has yet to arrive, and he’s becoming quite sick of it.

He’d thrown a tantrum about it, once, yelling so loudly his lungs burned, his screams tearing apart the carefully structured silence built around his home. He’d reveled in its annihilation, _savored_ the way the sound bounced off the walls and reverberated through the floorboards. It was noise — glorious, glorious, _noise_.

His father had never hit him before, and he has yet to hit him a single day after. But he hit him then. Hard.

And the silence returned.

Sasuke chokes it down now without complaint. He doesn’t understand, maybe never will, but he keeps the pain that blossomed across his cheek that day at the forefront of his mind whenever the frustration begins to build in the pit of his stomach. He imagines the feeling as a physical thing, starting as an amorphous tendril of smoke that slowly builds, swirling and pressing against his insides. Eventually he starts to feel it inching its way up his throat, bleeding into his lungs, and so he’ll focus on it during his meditations, drawing it back in and condensing it until the smoke hardens into a small, dense mass. It lays in his body like a stone, dragging him down with every step until he can hardly stand it.

And then he goes to the river.

He’s walking out of the house, on his way there now, when he sees his brother.

Itachi is still a ways down the road, making his way slowly to their house. A surge of joy rushes through Sasuke at the sight, and the heavy stone lying in his body is momentarily forgotten.

His first instinct, of course, is to run towards him. It had been well over a week since Itachi left for his mission, and Sasuke had been beginning to grow antsy, restlessly staring at the street as he waited for his brother’s return. He’d spend hours like that, just sitting on his front steps and trying to ignore the deep ache his brother’s absence left in his chest.

But now, he’s back. _Finally_.

Sasuke takes one, stuttering step towards his brother, his mouth widening into a smile, before he stops abruptly, the front of his shoe dragging loudly on the ground. His eyes widen as a small amount of dread settles in his lungs.

Itachi is practically dragging his feet down the road, still dressed in his ANBU uniform. It’s caked in dirt and one of the pant legs is torn, the fabric dangling around his ankle. His mask bobs against his hip, and a sharp panic jolts through Sasuke when he sees that there’s a chunk missing, the left ear of the weasel gone completely. He watches his brother closely, narrowing his eyes against the blinding sun, and that is when he notices how pale he looks, how he’s grimacing and limping ever so slightly.

The anger that overtakes him is intense, acute, the stone rolling in his stomach and threatening to snap wide open.

_I prayed, damn it._

He’d spent every day at the shrine, praying for the gods to protect Itachi on his mission. His knees are still bruised from the hours he’d spent kneeling on the hard floor, his lungs still heavy from the amount of incense he’d inhaled — and yet, _still_ , his brother is returning hurt.

The stone flips and he bites at his lip, worrying it between his teeth. He must have done something wrong. That has to be it. He thinks he grabbed the right supplies, but he had only brought what he could safely spirit out of his mother’s cabinets, things he’d known his parents wouldn’t miss. Maybe he’d taken the wrong ones?

A blunt terror suddenly begins to build in his throat as Itachi inches closer to him, Sasuke watching the broken mask shift against his brother’s pants with every small, shaky step he takes.

_Or maybe I’ve angered the gods._

Sasuke isn’t technically supposed to go in the shrine alone, is supposed to be escorted inside by an adult until he either awakens his Sharingan or turns thirteen. He’s always thought it to be a stupid rule, created by his clan for who knows what reason, but perhaps it’s something the gods made themselves. Perhaps he’d provoked them by breaking it, his presence angering them because he’s only seven and doesn’t have his Sharingan yet. And so maybe they’d decided to take his prayers and twist them, refusing to protect Itachi and instead riddling him with pain and injuries to punish Sasuke for his insolence.

_Is Itachi hurt because of me?_

Sasuke’s palms start to sweat, and he wipes them hard against his pants. The stone is still rolling, gaining speed, spinning round and round his insides and making him feel sick. He needs to get to the river, knows he’ll burst into a million pieces if he doesn’t — but _his brother_.

Itachi walks up to him. He glances down at Sasuke with bloodshot eyes, gives him a single nod — a simple, exhausted motion — and reaches a hand out, clasping him lightly on the shoulder. Then he’s moving past Sasuke and stepping inside the house.

Sasuke watches as the door shuts behind Itachi, his breath coming out hard and his shoulder left prickling from his brother’s touch.

_Is it my fault?_

He makes a decision at that moment: first the shrine, then the river. The gods will surely want him to apologize — he’ll stay outside, this time, will kneel on the steps and hope they take notice of him. He’ll apologize profusely, tell them he didn’t mean any insult; he just wanted his brother to return home, safe. And he’ll be sure to thank them for that, as well, because while his brother might be hurt, he’d still come back in one piece.

Sasuke sets off down the road with a decisive nod. He’ll just have to keep the stone from bursting for a bit longer. Appeasing the gods, after all, is of much greater import — his father is always telling him how fickle the gods can be, so they’ll surely want their apology right away.

The streets are empty as he walks, quiet, as usual. His shoes scrape against the dirt with every step, and he kicks at a few rocks in his path, makes them skip across the earth. He listens to the birds chirp, to the wind chimes shift against the breeze, and he tries to imagine what it would be like to live in the center of the Leaf, with all of the shops and people. It would be loud, surely, everyone talking and moving around and not worrying about _controlling_ themselves. They would embrace the noise, celebrate its presence. He thinks he’d like to live there, someday. Far, far away from the silence of the compound.

The shrine soon rises above him, and he stops.

It’s a plain, traditional building, the colors subdued and sun scorched. But, given how ancient the shrine is, it’s still in rather immaculate condition, something that should probably be regarded as a miracle in and of itself. That is hardly an act of the gods, though — really, the shrine’s appearance is all thanks to Old Man Suou’s effort. He’s been the groundskeeper for as long as Sasuke can remember, checking on the shrine and keeping it absolutely spotless. The man is dedicated to his job, critical in his assessment of the shrine and the land surrounding it. Sasuke had once seen him staring at the trees above the steps for hours one autumn day with a broom clutched in his hands, almost daring the trees to drop a single leaf on the marble below.

The steps are perfectly clear when Sasuke ascends them that day; Suou must have stopped by just a short while ago. He makes his way up and up and up, walking until he reaches the top step and is standing before the red gateway. The Uchiha insignia is proudly displayed in its center, the colors bright against the wood.

Sasuke kneels.

The sound of his claps is dull outside, though he makes an effort to cup his hands together, hoping that the gods will somehow still hear him all the way out here. He bows his head low to the ground, after, leaning until his forehead kisses the marble. His hands are spread wide next to him, the coolness of the stone seeping into his skin. He keeps his body still as he counts his breaths — _one, two, three, four_ — before lifting himself back up. His eyes are closed as he clasps his palms in front of his chest.

The language that pores out of his mouth is age-old. Sasuke began learning it as soon as he could speak — according to his father, it’s _the language of the gods themselves_ , and any well respected Uchiha ought to be fluent in it. He’s only ever used it for prayer.

Sasuke doesn’t know how long he stays on the steps, whispering his apology over and over and over again. He keeps telling himself he’ll go over everything just one more time, to be sure that at least _one_ god hears him. He still isn’t totally satisfied when he finishes, but his knees have started aching again and the back of his neck is stiff, so he lifts his head and opens his eyes.

Shisui is sitting cross legged in front of him, an eyebrow raised and an amused smile spread across his face.

Sasuke blinks at him, mildly taken aback by his sudden appearance. He doesn’t flinch, though, which is the reaction he assumes his cousin was aiming for, and that, for Sasuke, feels like a small victory. He takes a breath and collects himself, regarding Shisui in what he hopes comes across as a very calm and cool manner. “Shisui.”

“Sasuke.” The older boy’s smile widens. “Now what might you be doing here all by yourself?”

Sasuke looks down at the marble beneath him, then back up at his cousin. “I’m not in the shrine.”

“You’re not,” Shisui agrees.

Sasuke stares at his cousin, a deep confusion settling in his bones. “I’m allowed to be here by myself,” he insists. “Just as long as I don’t go inside.”

Shisui leans back and places his hands against the tile, nodding his head sagely. “You absolutely are.”

They watch each other, Sasuke still terribly perplexed and Shisui still clearly enjoying it. Sasuke feels himself beginning to frown. “So why —“

“Did you happen to see your brother?” Shisui asks, changing the subject completely. “He’s supposed to come back from his mission today.”

An image of Itachi walking down the street suddenly flashes across Sasuke’s mind. Despite his prayers, the guilt comes back in a rush, starts eating away at his chest.

_I got Itachi hurt._

“Yeah,” Sasuke mumbles. “He’s at home.”

Shisui cocks his head to the side. “You don’t sound too happy about that. What’s wrong, don’t like your brother anymore?” Shisui’s only teasing, Sasuke knows, but the remark still prickles along his skin, making the guilt flare.

“I think he’s hurt,” Sasuke admits. _And I think it’s my fault._

“ _Oh_ ,” Shisui draws out the sound, chuckling to himself. “So that’s why you’re here.” He cranes his head over his shoulder, then, considers the shrine. “I can bring you inside to pray properly, if you want.”

Sasuke feels his eyes widen. “Really?”

Shisui nods, hefting himself to his feet with a grunt. “Let me just go check on your brother first. We’ll go a bit later, okay?”

The smile that unfurls across his lips makes his face hurt. “You’re the best, Shisui!”

“And don’t you forget it, twerp.” His cousin ruffles his hair as he walks by. Sasuke swats at his hand, but Shisui’s already pulling it away, laughing. He raises an arm as he descends the steps. “See ya.” 

Sasuke watches his cousin disappear down the road. His shoulders feel considerably lighter, now — Shisui will surely make sure his brother is alright, and then he’ll take Sasuke inside the shrine later today. He’ll get to pray right before the gods; they’ll be sure to hear his apology then. It’s perfect, really.

The stone wobbles, reminding him of its presence, and so he gets to his feet.

The Naka River is only a few streets over from the shrine. He’s there in a matter of minutes, hurrying down the grassy hill until he hits the dock. The wood creaks under his feet as he walks along it slowly. He reaches the edge and pulls his shoes off, placing them to the side. The wood is cool against his skin, the entire thing covered in shadows.

He takes a deep breath, looks down at the still surface. The stone vibrates.

And he jumps in.

The water engulfs him, wrapping around his limbs and dragging him down, down, down. He lets himself float for a moment, focuses on how it feels to be suspended in the river’s grasp.

Then he screams.

**Itachi**

Itachi’s eyes burn. They burn, they burn, they _burn_.

He lays prone in his bed, a cool, damp cloth spread over his face. His body is still covered in dirt and grime, Itachi not having the energy to drag himself into the shower, but he at least took off his armor before collapsing on top of his sheets. His aching joints had weeped in relief as they settled into the comfortable embrace of his mattress, but he could hardly enjoy it, not really, not when his head was pounding, his eyes _throbbing_ against the heat building in his skull.

His mother had poked her head in a few moments after he’d laid down, asking if he needed anything. She was trying to be quiet, he could tell, but her voice shot straight through him nonetheless, making his brain ache. He managed to shake his head _no_ as he closed his eyes against the pain. 

She came in anyway, laying a towel over his face. _”It’ll help,”_ she whispered as she pushed his hair back with a warm hand. She kept it there for a moment, rubbing her thumb across his temple just like she used to do when he was a child. He twisted his head slightly and leaned into her touch. It was the most comfort he’d received in weeks.

His mother pulled away all too soon. He had to swallow the protest that bubbled up his throat; instead he listened to her walk across the room, listened to her slide his window open. A crisp breeze blew across his burning skin. _”I’ll be down the hall if you need anything,”_ she murmured. And then his door closed with a soft _click_.

He hasn’t moved since. The towel and air bring him some relief, but the hammering behind his eyes is merciless, never ending.

_Thump, thump, thump..._

He grimaces and a low, quiet groan escapes from the back of his throat. _Gods_ , his head fucking hurt.

The pain has never been this bad before. He’s called on plenty of lesser deities since awakening his Sharingan, and while he always gets a headache after their departure, the pain has never been quite so strong, and it certainly has never taken this long to subside. In fact, this headache only seems to be getting worse, the pressure increasing around his eyes by the second.

He knew he had fucked up when it happened. The goddess he beseeched had been wholly foreign to him, and she had refused to tell him her name. He shouldn’t have accepted her help, should have listened to the small voice in his head warning him against it, telling him that he should only commune with deities that he was familiar with. But he had called upon a god and she was the only one that had come — he didn’t have another choice. And besides, she didn’t _feel_ any stronger than the deities he was used to dealing with. He figured he’d be able to handle her just fine. And so he accepted.

Her power had thrummed through him quickly, bitter and acidic as it boiled in his veins. She had cast a devastating illusion on his enemy, incapacitating the shinobi completely, and then she was gone. Her presence had been brief, fleeting, but it left his body weak and feverish. He’d been able to hold himself together for the duration of the mission, had managed to make it back into the Leaf without unraveling completely. But by the time he stepped foot in the compound, he was a mess. His eyes had already begun to ache, and he was nearly delirious with the pain of it when he finally reached his house. It was all he could do to force his body the last few steps to his room, to shrug out of his armor and fall onto his bed.

He hadn’t been overly concerned, at first. But a muted panic has started collecting in his stomach, growing larger the longer his agony continues. He keeps telling himself to relax, to accept the pain for what it is. It’s only temporary, he assures himself, just the result of channeling too much power. The goddess has not left him crippled, she hasn’t unhinged his mind from reality; his body just needs time to recover from her strength. And then he will be fine.

He sips in a shaky breath, counts the seconds in his head as he holds it in his lungs. _Breathe. Just breathe._

And that’s when a sharp _tap_ raps across his window.

The air leaves his body in a harsh, choked gasp, the sound exploding across his eyeballs and reverberating through his bones, making him cringe. The voice that follows is soft — or as soft as Shisui’s voice _can_ be — but it still pierces through Itachi like a knife.

“Heard you’re hurting,” his cousin says. “Pushed your Sharingan too far, eh?”

Itachi only groans, the pain blossoming stronger in his head.

“Given the state you’re in,” Shisui muses, “I’m gonna go ahead and guess that you did something _really_ stupid.” Suddenly a finger is jabbing against his side, digging hard between his ribs. He hadn’t even heard Shisui move. “Am I right?”

“Go away,” he moans, in no mood for a lecture. His head will surely explode if he has to deal with the pain _and_ Shisui’s bitching.

“I should really let you lie here and suffer,” Shisui points out, ignoring him entirely. “Might teach you not to be such a dumbass all the time. But, since I’m just _such_ a nice guy,” Itachi hears fabric shift, followed by the snap of a button, “I brought you some sweet, _sweet_ relief.”

The towel is lifted off his face and Itachi finds himself squinting at the white expanse of his ceiling. A sharp pang runs across his eyes as he shifts his head over to see a blurry image of Shisui standing at his bedside, holding up a small vile.

His cousin pops the top off, motions for Itachi to open his mouth. “Say _aaaah_.”

Had Itachi not been in absolute, unadulterated agony, he would have rolled his eyes. But, as it stands, he obediently opens his mouth wide enough for Shisui to rest the glass against his lips, his cousin tilting it gently and allowing the contents to pour down his tongue.

The liquid is flavorless as it rolls across his tastebuds and lands coolly at the back of his throat. He swallows, forcing it down. A moment passes, and a delightful numbness settles in his limbs. He takes a breath.

Then his body seizes.

Something hard lands across his chest, and he belatedly realizes it’s Shisui, wrapping his hands tightly around Itachi’s wrists and using his weight to keep him pinned to the bed. Itachi strains against his cousin’s grip. He feels himself gasping, desperately trying to get air into his lungs.

Shisui’s voice is a mere echo in his head. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” he soothes. “Just ride it out. I’ve got you.”

Minutes go by. He’s still convulsing, still has no control over his body. But then, suddenly, his body relaxes, the tension leaving him all at once. Sweat trickles down his forehead and his breath comes out hard, unsteady.

The headache is gone.

He looks down, sees Shisui grinning up at him. “You good?”

Itachi musters up enough energy to glare at his cousin. He’s still panting, his chest rising and falling erratically.

Shisui’s smile twists into a smirk as he starts to lift himself off Itachi. “ _Wow, thanks Shisui,_ ” he says, pitching his voice low to mimic Itachi’s. The mattress dips under his cousin’s weight as he turns around and sits on the edge of the bed. “ _I have no idea what I would do without you._ ” Shisui makes a face then, waving a dismissive hand down at Itachi. “It’s no problem, Itachi,” he answers. “My pleasure, really.”

Itachi’s throat is still thick, and he has to force the words through it. “What the hell —“ he wheezes “— did you give me?”

“Special concoction.” Shisui winks at him. “Don’t expect to be taking it all the time, now; that shit will kill you after awhile.”

Itachi wipes a hand over his face. His eyes still sting mildly, but it’s a vast improvement over the scorching pain that had been burning through them before.

“Yeah, alright,” he mumbles to Shisui, his breathing starting to even out. Whatever the mystery medicine is, he’s sure he can get his hands on more of it, even without his cousin’s help.

He feels something flick against his arm. Peering between his fingers, he sees Shisui leaning towards him, his gaze boring into him with a sharp, focused intensity.

“So,” Shisui starts, his tone deceptively light, “who the hell did you call down?”

Itachi keeps himself entirely still under Shisui’s scrutiny. “A goddess,” he answers.

Shisui rolls his eyes, leans in closer. “ _Which_ goddess?”

Itachi sighs, rubs his hand hard against his eyes. Better to get it over with now, he supposes. “I don’t know.”

Shisui pauses. “You don’t _know_ ,” he repeats, incredulous.

“She wouldn’t tell me her name,” Itachi admits.

“She wouldn’t —“ Shisui’s moving, now, and Itachi looks up to see his cousin standing above him, staring at him with his mouth hanging open. His eyes are comically wide, his face flushed, and Itachi can’t help but think that, under different circumstances, he would have found Shisui’s expression quite amusing.

He counts down the seconds in his head: _five, four, three —_

Shisui flails, starts gesticulating towards Itachi wildly. “Holy _shit_ , Itachi!” He says it in a barely contained whisper. “What the _fuck_ — you _fucking_ — I can’t _believe_ —“ Shisui lets out a frustrated, wordless yell as he runs his hands through his hair. He’s pacing now, glaring at Itachi as he mutters under his breath. Itachi stays quiet.

Shisui stops and closes his eyes. He takes a deep inhalation, his chest lifting with the motion. He holds the air in his lungs for a brief second, then expels it hard through his nose. Itachi can hear the rage pulsing through his voice when he speaks. “Could you _be_ more stupid?”

Itachi pushes himself up with a grimace, leaning back against his headboard. “I thought I could handle it.”

“Itachi,“ Shisui sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re not supposed to be calling _any_ deity down without the Mangekyou. The fact — no,” Shisui raises a hand towards him, evidently predicting Itachi’s forthcoming argument. “Don’t you dare say a fucking word. The basic Sharingan isn’t _meant_ to channel the gods, and you fucking know that.”

He realizes it’s in his best interest to let Shisui throw his little fit, but Itachi can’t help but feel mildly defensive. “My Sharingan can handle —“

“Just because it _can_ doesn’t mean it _should_!” Shisui throws his hands in the air. “You being some sort of phenom doesn’t change the fact that the Sharingan is only meant to siphon spiritual energy. You need the _Mangekyou_ in order to channel the gods, you _moron_ —“

“I’ve done it before and it’s been fine, it was just this time —“

“You didn’t know her name, Itachi!” Shisui is practically yelling now. “You channeled a deity _whose name you did not know_. You had no idea what she was capable of! And, and —“ he jabs a finger at him, “ _and_ you did it without the Mangekyou!” Shisui laughs, then, the sound colored with disbelief. “Do you realize how _dangerous_ that is?”

Itachi stares down at his sheets, picking at a few loose threads. “I know.”

“You could’ve died.”

Itachi pulls at the thread harder. “I know.”

Shisui stays silent for a moment, the only sound in the room his ragged breathing. Then he sighs, a loud, defeated noise. “Just —“ He pauses, takes another breath. “Please, _please_ , be more careful, alright?” Itachi glances up, sees Shisui looking at him soberly. “You might have a natural propensity for all this, but even you have limits.”

Itachi nods, tries to keep the shame from slinking through his bones. “I will,” he promises, his voice quiet.

“And next time a god shows up whose name you don’t know, maybe _don’t_ accept their help? Think you can do that for me?”

After the agony he’d just experienced, Itachi doesn’t think he’ll be all that tempted. “Yes.”

“Good.” Shisui sighs again. He rolls his neck to the side, rubbing at his shoulder. “Okay, okay.” He nods down at Itachi. “Well, you’re not dying so, mission accomplished.” He looks off towards the window and starts speaking under his breath, the words low and incoherent. Itachi knows that Shisui isn’t explicitly talking to him, is more so just releasing his thoughts into the air, but he listens to his cousin’s mumblings anyway. “I’ll have to go pay for that medicine. Was really hoping I wouldn’t need it but.” A small shrug. “Should probably bring Sasuke to the shrine first —“

Itachi looks up at the sound of Sasuke’s name. “Why are you taking Sasuke to the shrine?” 

Shisui turns to him, blinking. He probably hadn’t even been aware he was speaking out loud.

He recovers soon enough, though, giving Itachi a hollow smile. “He was on the steps praying for you,” he explains. “I told him I’d bring him inside later so he could do it properly.”

Itachi pictures his brother at the entrance of the shrine, bowing his head low and whispering prayers under his breath. Something warm bubbles in Itachi’s chest at the thought.

It soon freezes over.

 _Shit_. He’d fucked up. He only vaguely remembers walking by Sasuke on his way into the house, but if he had looked as bad as he felt, he’d probably scared the ever living shit out of his brother.

The guilt claws at him.

Itachi starts to ease himself off the bed, spurred into motion by the apprehension his thoughts have caused. “Mind if I come?”

Shisui watches him struggle, a mild concern creeping across his face. “You should rest,” he says.

“I’m fine, really.” He has to hide a grimace as he hefts himself to his feet, a dull pain spreading across his side.

Shisui considers him silently. He still looks wholly unconvinced, but he eventually shrugs. “Fine. But,“ he holds out a hand as Itachi takes a step towards him, warding him off, “go take a shower first, please.” Shisui gives him an apologetic smile. “Suou’s going to lose it if he catches you inside the shrine looking like that and, gods help me, I am not sitting through that lecture with you again.”

**Shisui**

Shisui leaves Itachi’s room once he hears the water turn on down the hall. He figures it’ll take Itachi some time to clean up, so he decides to make his way to the kitchen, idly hoping Aunt Mikoto has something lying around that he can pick at, and tries not to curse Itachi under his breath on his way there.

Really, for such a smart guy, his cousin can be a real fucking idiot sometimes.

He rolls his eyes to himself. A goddess. The moron called down a _goddess_ with a basic Sharingan. And it was one he didn’t even _know_. The amount of stupidity that takes is astonishing.

Though, maybe _stupidity_ is the wrong word. It’s more an issue of confidence, Shisui thinks, and the fact that Itachi doesn’t seem to be lacking it in the slightest. Sometimes Shisui is convinced that his cousin believes he’s invincible, using his Sharingan to draw from the spiritual realm with a distressing amount of ease. He doesn’t _fear_ the gods that reside there, is instead convinced of his own ability to control them. And that is dangerous. Terribly, terribly dangerous.

But no one seems at all willing to point that out to Itachi. Instead, they praise him for his nonchalance, calling him a _prodigy_ and fawning over how much skill he exhibits over his dojutsu. Fugaku is probably the worst offender, urging his son to push himself even harder, to try and reach farther into the realm and see how much power he can draw out.

Shisui has to quell the rage burning in his stomach when he thinks about it.

Itachi is talented — it’s an undeniable fact. But he is still _human_ , still susceptible to all of the risks posed by the spiritual realm. To have him testing the limits of his Sharingan is reckless and irresponsible, and it puts Itachi at _risk_. But Shisui seems to be the only one that particularly cares about that. He supposes it’s partially because, so far, Itachi has been relatively lucky when it comes to the Sharingan’s side effects. His worst symptoms have been his headaches, and though this last one was considerably stronger than the rest, it was hardly the worst thing that could have happened to him after the stunt he pulled.

They’ve all heard the cautionary tales, had them drilled into their heads the second they awakened their Sharingan. The stories themselves are nauseating, accounts of bodies rotting from the inside out, of minds being completely untethered from reality, of a deep, insatiable rage consuming a person’s entire being — all the result of taking on too much power through the Sharingan. The stories scared the shit out of Shisui when he first heard them, and they continue to scare the shit out of him now. Those stories taught him one of the most important lessons he’s ever learned, though; it’s the one he keeps at the forefront of his mind whenever he activates his Sharingan, the one that he thinks about every day when he wakes up, and every night before he goes to sleep. Because while the Uchiha clan stresses stillness and tranquility, arming each generation to the teeth with ancient meditation techniques, Shisui knows that none of that will truly protect him from the strength of the gods. Only fear will keep him safe, will keep him from falling victim to the alluring power he’s been granted access to. He is of the earthly realm — he may be able to commune with deities, to channel their energy through his own body, but he cannot forget that he is still only flesh and bone. It will surely be the end of him if he does.

He’s tried to instill that same fear into Itachi, to stress the dangers of their dojutsu to him, the consequences of it. But, evidently, prodigies have no time for such caution.

Shisui sighs as he walks into the kitchen, his feet dragging as he heads towards the cabinet that Mikoto keeps the sweets in. There is only so much he can do to keep Itachi safe, unfortunately. Maybe going to the shrine with Sasuke will actually help — Itachi certainly won’t hold back for his own sake, but perhaps he’ll be a bit more careful once he realizes just how devastated Sasuke will be if something happens to him.

The cabinet opens with a soft _creak_. Shisui assesses its contents diligently, frowning and reaching his hand inside, moving around a few boxes — his options are hardly compelling.

“We have a front door, you know.” The voice is light, teasing. Shisui turns around to see Mikoto observing him from across the room, a basket of laundry resting against her hip. She’s smiling at him.

He returns the expression with a grin. “Sorry, Auntie,” he apologizes.

She rolls her eyes, feigning exasperation. “I swear, I could leave the door wide open and you’d _still_ choose to come in through a window.”

Shisui feels his smile widen — she was absolutely right.

She tilts her head to the other side of the room, then, motioning towards a cabinet with her free hand. “I made those cookies you like the other day, by the way. I hid a few in the cupboard for you so the boys wouldn’t find them.”

His eyes widen. “The chocolate ones with the —“

She’s already nodding. “Those are the ones.”

It’s childish, he knows, but he hurries across the kitchen, his mouth practically watering. Mikoto’s laughing as he pulls the paper bag out and peers inside.

He beams at her. “Thank you, Auntie.” He pulls out a cookie and takes a large bite, balancing the bag underneath his chin so the crumbs fall into it.

“You’re welcome.” She shifts the basket to her other hip, taking a quick glance down the hall. The water is still running.

She looks back at him, worry lines creasing her forehead. “Is he okay?” she asks, her voice low.

Shisui nods immediately, nonchalant. Best not to worry her. “Oh yeah, he’s doing a lot better now.” He takes another bite of the cookie — _fuck_ they’re good. “I got him to take some medicine and it cleared right up.”

Mikoto lets out a breath, peering back down the hall with a hand against her chest. “That’s a relief. Did he say what happened?”

A slight hesitation grips at him. He knows that he should tell her. She deserves to know; she’s his mother, after all. Undoubtedly, she’s already aware of the pressure being placed on her eldest son, of the things he’s being conditioned to believe he can achieve. It can’t be easy on her.

Shisui shakes his head. “No, he didn’t say.”

She purses her lips, looking back down the hall. “Probably did something reckless,” she mumbles, mostly to herself.

 _Way worse than reckless,_ he thinks dryly, picking up another cookie from the bag. 

Mikoto turns her attention back to him just as he’s shoving it into his mouth. The sight evidently amuses her, because a small smile appears on her face. 

“Thank you for taking care of him,” she says softly.

Shisui pauses, crumbs falling from his mouth. He tries to give her a smile, but the gesture feels hollow, empty. “Of course.”

_I’m just sorry I can’t do more._

A beat of silence passes between them, and then Mikoto is moving back down the hall, calling back to him over her shoulder. “You better not leave any of those cookies here — you either eat them or take them with you.”

He leans against the wall and takes another bite of a cookie, laughing to himself. His mouth is full when he replies. “Sure thing, Auntie.”

He’s alone for awhile, then, listening idly to the melody of running water and his own chewing. He looks back into the bag. There are three cookies left. Surely, he can eat them all now, but he also thinks it might be nice to have a few later, after —

The front door bangs open. “I’m home,” a young, childish voice announces. Quiet footsteps echo through the house, drawing closer and closer, until Sasuke appears, stepping into the kitchen. His bare feet _squelch_ against the tile, and it’s then that Shisui realizes.

He’s sopping wet.

Shisui sighs, rolls his eyes. How either of his cousins have managed to survive this long is a mystery to him.

Sasuke catches sight of him and jumps, obviously not expecting someone to be standing there. Shisui raises an eyebrow. He holds up a hand, crumbs still dangling from his fingertips, and points at Sasuke. “Why are you wet?”

Sasuke stares at him. Then he looks down at his body as if just realizing that his clothes are, in fact, drenched.

His cousin looks back up at him, his cheeks beginning to redden. “I went swimming.”

Shisui’s other brow lifts. “In your clothes?”

Water drips off Sasuke’s shirt, splashing lightly on the floor. “Yes.”

Shisui presses his lips together hard, tries to hold back the smile threatening to break free. “That’s the story you’re gonna go with?”

Sasuke starts to chew on the inside of his cheek. “That’s what happened,” he says, his voice unsteady.

“Okay.” Shisui keeps his gaze locked on Sasuke. His cousin starts to shift his weight uneasily between his feet, and Shisui finds himself inordinately amused by his discomfort. He bites into another cookie.

Neither of them hear Itachi come in, a towel wrapped around his shoulders and a fresh pair of clothes on. “Hey, I’m ready when —“ He catches sight of Sasuke and stops in his tracks. He blinks down at his brother, his brow furrowing. “Why are you wet?”

Shisui reaches into the bag. “He went swimming,” he supplies helpfully.

“You —“ Itachi tilts his head to the side, considering Sasuke. “In your clothes?”

Sasuke says nothing. He only stares at Itachi with wide eyes.

“Psst.” Sasuke looks over at him, still stupefied. “You gotta stick with the story,” he mock whispers, jerking his head towards Itachi. “It’s too late to back out now.”

A forlorn sigh escapes from Itachi’s mouth. He sounds absolutely exasperated when he speaks. “Shisui, what are you —“

“I went swimming in the river.” Sasuke says suddenly, turning back to Itachi. “In my clothes,” he adds.

Itachi frowns down at Sasuke. “Why?”

Sasuke peeks back over at him. Shisui gives him a thumbs up and a nod. “Keep going,” he mouths.

“Because I...felt like it?” he answers lamely, meeting Itachi’s gaze once again.

Itachi is staring at them both, now, his eyes darting back and forth between them suspiciously. He takes a breath, pushes his tongue against the side of his cheek. “What exactly is happening right now?”

“Well.” Both brothers look at him. “Sasuke was just about to go get changed so we can head to the shrine.” Shisui picks up a cookie and waves it in the air. “And I’m going to eat this last cookie.” He smiles serenely at Itachi as he pops the entire thing in his mouth, making his cheeks bulge.

He sees Sasuke zero in on the bag from the corner of his eye. “Hey,” he pouts, “where did you get —“

Shisui squeezes the empty bag in his hand and points at the doorway. He tries to say _go get changed_ but, given the large quantity of food in his mouth, it ends up sounding more like “ _gah geh hane._ ”

Sasuke seems to get the hint, regardless, and rushes out of the kitchen, squeezing past Itachi. His footsteps _thump_ lightly down the hall as he heads to his room. Itachi watches Sasuke for a moment, and then he’s turning back to Shisui, leveling him with a flat glare. 

Shisui’s mouth is still full. “Whah?”

Itachi crosses his arms over his chest. “Do I want to know?”

His jaw hurts as he chews through the cookie, trying to force some of it down his throat so he can give Itachi an answer. Unfortunately, though, he realizes that the cookie is just a bit too big to manage that without choking, the baked good taking up just about every square inch of his mouth.

He waves a hand at Itachi, motions back towards his face as spit starts to dribble down his chin. _Give me a second._

Shisui presses a hand against his mouth to stop the cookie from falling out, focusing hard on working it into a pulp with his teeth. Itachi watches him the entire time, the intensity of his gaze hardly lessening in the face of Shisui’s admittedly ridiculous predicament.

It takes a bit longer than a second, but, eventually, he swallows the cookie. He raises his arms in victory when the last bit of it drops down his throat. The bag is still crushed in his hand. “I _win_.”

Itachi’s staring at him, this time with narrowed eyes. “How you get through a single day,” he marvels, “is absolutely beyond me.”

Shisui bares his teeth in a grin. “That’s funny, because I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

The sneer that overtakes Itachi’s face is immediate. Shisui returns the expression, giving Itachi a sneer of his own, and soon they’re standing across the kitchen from each other, making ridiculous face after ridiculous face.

Sasuke runs into the room just as Shisui’s reaching into his mouth, using his fingers to pull his lips apart.

Sasuke pulls up short, stares at Shisui curiously. “What are you doing?”

Shisui pauses. He slides his saliva-covered fingers out of his mouth. “Nothing.”

Itachi’s standing next to Sasuke, smirking. He sticks his tongue out at Shisui quickly, and somehow manages to compose his features entirely just as Sasuke turns to look up at him.

 _Bastard,_ Shisui silently grumbles.

“Ready to go to the shrine?” Itachi asks.

Sasuke’s mouth opens into a small _o_. “You’re coming?”

“If that’s okay.” Sasuke’s nodding eagerly before Itachi even finishes speaking.

“Yeah but — does that mean you’re feeling better now?”

Shisui watches closely as Itachi’s expression softens, ever so slightly. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m feeling a lot better now.”

Sasuke’s grin is blinding. He grabs hold of Itachi’s arm and turns back to Shisui. “Let’s go, then!”


	2. The Reikai

**Sasuke**

They don’t immediately go inside when they reach the shrine — Itachi and Shisui make their way to the stone basin placed alongside its entrance instead, walking over to it promptly upon their arrival. Sasuke stands back and waits as they each reach a hand into the water. He watches silently as they bring handfuls of it up their arms, as they rub it hard over their skin.

Sasuke knows that they’re performing the standard purification ritual those of the Uchiha clan are required to carry out before entering the shrine. It’s a simple process as far as Sasuke can tell, one that doesn’t appear to have much rhyme or reason, in his opinion. He doesn’t know a lot about it, in all honesty, but he does know that he’s not required to partake in it until he’s of age. It’s an odd thing to be precluded from, he thinks, mostly because he doesn’t understand how his age has anything to do with how unclean the gods may perceive him to be. But he doesn’t complain, doesn’t ask questions — he just quietly adds it to the list of things he doesn’t understand about his family and his religion.

Sasuke looks on as Itachi and Shisui each take another handful of water and scrub it over their faces. They cup it over their eyes, let it soak into their sockets, and they push it into their mouths, taking a few seconds to swirl it against the sides of their cheeks, to squeeze it in between their teeth. Eventually they lean over and spit it out into the buckets lying at their feet.

When they turn back to him, neither Itachi nor Shisui seem any more pure than they had before — they just look wet, really. Sasuke wonders if they feel any different, if the water does something to them that can’t be perceived by the eye alone. Or maybe the water does absolutely nothing, maybe they both just partake in the purification for the sake of tradition, do it because they know they’re supposed to. Sasuke wants to ask, but he knows they won’t tell him, because no one tells him anything. So he holds his silence and waits for them to reach out towards him, to motion him forward and lead him into the shrine.

And then they walk inside.

The front room of the shrine is entirely bare save for a large, empty wooden table standing in the middle of it. Sasuke isn’t completely sure why it’s there, has never seen anything actually placed on it. He’s considered the possibility that it’s just meant to fill the space, but it’s so inconveniently placed that he can’t fathom why someone hasn’t gotten rid of it unless it holds some sort of greater significance. What that significance is, though, he has no clue, especially since Shisui and Itachi don’t even spare it a passing glance as they lead Sasuke around it, bringing him straight to the screen door at the back of the room. Shisui wastes no time in opening it, the screen sliding back in one easy, fluid motion. And then his cousin is stepping aside, his eyes downturned as he allows Sasuke to enter.

The prayer hall isn’t particularly large. Sasuke knows this logically, can reason through it as he stands at the front of the room. It’s only a few tatami mats wide, the altar at the back only twenty or so meters from the entrance. Couple that with its low ceilings and complete lack of windows, and the space should feel incredibly intimate — cozy, even, especially when its walls are lit by the warm glow of candles and its air is saturated with the sweet smell of incense. And it would, Sasuke thinks. If it weren’t for the mirrors, at least.

The walls on either side of the hall are lined entirely by mirrors. They reflect off each other hundreds, maybe thousands of times, lengthening the room by miles. The illusion takes Sasuke’s breath away every time he lays eyes on it; it’s hypnotizing, entrancing, nearly impossible to look away from.

The mirrors, he knows, are there for Sharingan users. They all pray differently than those without the Sharingan: they don’t clap or kneel, don’t close their eyes or whisper under their breath. They simply sit in front of their reflection, quiet and stoic, staring resolutely at the mirrored image of their Sharingan.

He’d asked Itachi and Shisui what it was like, once, to pray like that — he’d asked them what they saw, what they spent hours doing. Neither gave him an answer. Shisui had only waved his questions away, placating Sasuke by telling him that it was nothing special, that he thought the way Sasuke prayed was far more preferable. Sasuke had walked away fairly unconvinced by his cousin’s answer, but he tried his best to believe him, tried to convince himself that there wasn’t anything fantastic about the way Sharingan users prayed. But then Sasuke had asked his brother the same questions, and a disturbingly vacant look had settled deep in the depths of Itachi’s eyes. And that was when Sasuke knew that something special happened when a person prayed with the Sharingan, something that Shisui wouldn’t tell him. He could hardly hold the lie against his cousin, though, especially since his brother refused to tell him anything about it, too. Itachi had stayed quiet for a few moments, staring blankly at an empty space above Sasuke’s shoulder. But then he’d shaken himself, brought himself back from whatever place his mind had drifted off to, and assured Sasuke that he’d understand when he awakened his own Sharingan.

But Sasuke still doesn’t have his Sharingan. And so he walks right past the mirrors, leaving his brother and cousin behind as he makes his way to the back of the room.

The altar erected there is far from intricate, made up of only a faceless golden idol surrounded by large piles of bloody, rusted weaponry. They are offerings to the gods, apparently, weapons taken from those defeated by the Uchiha in battle. Hundreds of wax candles balance on them precariously, a handful already aflame when Sasuke approaches despite the fact that no one else is in the hall. The sight is hardly surprising — it’s bad luck for a person to purposefully extinguish the candles there, so there’s almost always at least a few burning. Their fire glints off the dull, aged metal of swords and kunai, makes the featureless face of the idol glow.

Sticks of incense still burn in the two large vases placed on either side of the altar, but Sasuke grabs his own from a pile stacked on the side nonetheless. He grips the tip of it lightly, focuses the chakra into his fingers until his skin is practically boiling. It doesn’t light immediately, though — he has to try a number of times, pulsing the chakra through his fingertips over and over and over again until _finally_ the stick ignites. He waits a moment, watches the fire burn. But soon he waves it out with a hand and let’s the smoke rise in thin, spiraling tendrils.

Jabbing the stick into a vase, he then moves over to the candles near the idol. He chooses a large one near the bottom to light — it looks fairly new, was probably placed there earlier that week. Its wick feels terribly fragile between his fingers, though, so he makes sure to hold it carefully as he focuses his chakra. Eventually, it too bursts into flames against his skin.

He walks silently back to the space in between the vases, moves to stand behind the lone mat laying there. His knees sink to the floor and land on its cushioned surface.

And then he prays.

His claps are louder in the hall, thundering in the silence of the room. Instead of marble, his forehead meets the straw of the tatami mat when he leans over, and he can see the fire moving behind his closed lids when he sits up and bows his head.

He thanks the gods first — thanks them for their forgiveness, for restoring Itachi’s health. He apologizes for disrespecting them, for entering the shrine on his own when he knows he isn’t supposed to. He promises to never do it again, promises to follow all of their rules and laws from now on despite how unnecessary or pointless he may find them (though he makes sure to leave that last part out).

Sasuke doesn’t pray for as long as he prayed outside on the steps earlier. He knows the gods see him here, knows that they can hear his words. So, in an effort not to annoy them, to not take up too much of their time, he tries to keep his prayers short and succinct.

When he finishes and lifts himself back to his feet, he realizes that the incense stick he’d placed in the vase had almost burned away completely.

Sasuke stares at it. _Oops._ Guess he’d still spent a long time praying.

A tiny needle of guilt jabs at him, but he shakes the worry away, tells himself that the gods surely won’t mind. He’s revering them, after all — how can they be angry about that?

As he turns away from the altar, he expects to find Shisui and Itachi near the front of the room, waiting to escort him out of the shrine. His breath catches in his throat when he instead sees a seemingly infinite number of Itachis and Shisuis spread across the expanse of the hall. Sasuke can’t even begin to comprehend the sheer number of bright Sharingan reflected by those walls, but his brother and cousin hardly seem at all affected by the sight. Itachi is sitting completely still with his legs crossed and his hands clasped loosely in his lap, staring stoically at his multiplied image. Shisui, meanwhile, isn’t looking at the mirror at all — he sits directly behind Itachi, his eyes closed and a hand splayed on his brother’s back.

It’s a position Sasuke has seen them in numerous times before. And so he knows, in that moment, that they are all going to be in the shrine for hours.

Sasuke tries not to pout at the realization. He knows better than to interrupt their prayers, and he can hardly leave the prayer hall without them right after promising the gods he’d never break their rules again. So he walks towards them, thousands of Sasukes doing the same — they all sit beside Itachi and Shisui, all look up to meet Itachi’s glazed, glassy eyes. And they wait.

Sasuke nearly jumps when Shisui’s voice breaks through the silence.

“You don’t have to wait for us,” he mumbles, his head bowed and his eyes still closed.

Sasuke glances at his cousin, surprised that he’d addressed him while in the middle of prayer. The feeling subsides as Sasuke comprehends Shisui’s words, though, an image of Itachi’s pained expression from that morning flashing across his mind. Sasuke shifts against the mat. “I’m not allowed to be in any part of the shrine by myself.”

“You have my permission,” Shisui assures him. “Just don’t wander on your way out.”

Sasuke looks up at the mirror, stares at his brother’s stoic face. “Can I stay?” he asks, trying to keep his voice low.

Shisui _hums_ under his breath. He doesn’t move. “If you want.”

The silence descends on them once again. Sasuke tries not to fidget, tries to keep himself as still as Itachi and Shisui. But he can’t stop his fingers from twitching as the minutes pass, can’t stop himself from bobbing his legs as the candles at the altar start to dim. He tries to imagine what Itachi is doing, tries to picture what fantastic things he must be seeing in the mirror to be entranced so completely, so thoroughly.

_I wish I had my Sharingan. I wish I could see what he sees._

The thought barely has time to make its way through his mind when Shisui speaks again, breaking him out of his reverie. “Do you know why the altar idol doesn’t have a face?”

Sasuke looks over at Shisui. His cousin’s face is serene, tranquil, but his arm is nearly trembling with the amount of force he’s exerting on Itachi’s back.

“Father says it’s because the Uchiha clan doesn’t pray to just one god,” Sasuke answers. “And if we had an idol for each one of them, it would fill up the entire compound.”

“That’s one reason.” His cousin goes silent, then. Itachi is still prone in front of him, staring blankly at his own reflection — it doesn’t seem like he can hear them at all.

Sasuke tries to be patient, but Shisui doesn’t move to speak again. So he waits for what he thinks is a sufficient amount of time before finally asking, “What’s the other reason?”

Though his head is bowed, Sasuke can still see Shisui’s lips quirk up into a small smile. “You know what the Reikai is?”

Sasuke tilts his head to the side, his reflected images all following suit. “That’s where the gods live, right?”

“In a sense,” Shisui says. “It’s the space they inhabit, at least, a sort of spiritual realm. The Reikai isn’t like our world, though. It’s —“ Shisui cuts himself off, then, his brows furrowing suddenly. “Damn it,” he mutters. He shifts his hand against Itachi’s back, seems to press down on it even harder. Itachi doesn’t move in the slightest.

Sasuke isn’t sure what’s happening, doesn’t know what his cousin is doing, exactly. He watches Shisui carefully, though, watches as he takes one breath, then another, holding the air in his lungs before exhaling it through his nose in a steady stream of air. He tracks the bead of sweat that rolls down the side of Shisui’s temple, follows it as it drips down to his jaw.

It takes a few minutes, but Shisui’s face eventually relaxes again. The pressure his hand is applying to Itachi’s back doesn’t ease in the slightest, though.

Shisui takes another deep breath. And then he resumes his explanation. “The gods don’t look like you and me,” he says. “They don’t have bodies, don’t have a physical likeness that we can represent with an idol. And so we keep the idol faceless, make sure the gods don’t have a reason to bitch at us for any sort of false portrayal.” Shisui’s smile widens. “The gods get insulted very easily by things like that, you know.”

 _Things like that._ Things like inaccurate depictions and young boys entering their shrine without permission.

Sasuke looks back at the mirror as a sharp pang of guilt shoots through him. His eyes follow the leisurely spin of Itachi’s Sharingan. _But it’s okay now,_ he reminds himself. _The gods forgave me and they healed Itachi. So it’s okay._

Shisui doesn’t speak again. And the silence extends back across the room, thick and smothering.

_It’s okay._

**Itachi**

Looking into the Reikai is like falling, back and back and back into an endless void of blinding, brilliant light. The colors explode before his eyes, twisting and coiling around him, seeping into every nook and fissure of his mind. The energy permeates him completely — he can’t separate himself from it, can’t even begin to comprehend who he is without it. He is one with the gods, an unshackled force of power completely unto himself. He is nothing and everything, all at once. Unrestrained and free.

A sharp, stinging sensation suddenly registers on the periphery of his awareness. The light starts to shudder, its vibrant shades dulling until the world around him devolves into a murky, hideous mess. His mind cringes away from the sensation instinctively. It is not of the spiritual realm — it is an intrusion, a _distraction_ , and it is blunting the glorious beauty of the domain, keeping him from fully experiencing its magnificent wonders. He tries to figure out where the force is coming from, but he can’t even begin to pinpoint its location. It just _is_ , incessant and all consuming, both everywhere and nowhere. He tries to expel the feeling away from him, sends out a pulse of his own energy to counteract it. But the stinging only grows stronger. It prickles past the edge of his consciousness and digs into him, encompassing his whole being.

Itachi takes a breath —

He pauses. A breath: he’d taken a breath, had somehow pulled the air surrounding him down into himself. And now he’s doing it again. And again. And again.

The realization inches slowly across his mind, descending over it like a thick fog. It dims the light around him even further, makes him all the more aware of the stinging sensation pervading his senses.

Those that belong to the spirit realm don’t breathe. But he does. 

_Because I am not of the Reikai. I am a man; I belong to the earth._

He is flesh and bone; not a spirit at all. If he pays attention, he thinks he can feel his body, can make out his limbs and fingers and toes.

_My body. I have a body._

The stinging sensation, he realizes, is coming from behind him. Reverberating through his back. It takes him a moment, but he eventually remembers. _Shisui. Shisui is right behind me, anchoring me to my body._ Itachi takes another breath. He can only vaguely feel the air in his lungs, but it’s there. He’s there.

The frustration is muted, but it flows through him nonetheless. _That’s three times, now,_ he thinks idly. _Three times I’ve gotten distracted._ It usually isn’t this hard for him to maintain control when looking into the Reikai, and he has a sinking feeling that Shisui might have been right, that he might not be in any sort of condition to do this after the stress his body underwent.

He brushes the thought away. _Fuck it._ He’ll try again — just once more. 

With an enormous amount of effort, he grasps hard at the limited awareness he’s regained over his body. He tries to force his mind to focus on the physical mass of it, tries to reorient himself within it.

_I am not of the Reikai — I am only looking inside of it. Remember that. Remember, remember, remember._

Concentrating on the feeling of Shisui’s hand against his back, on the feeling of his cousin’s chakra pulsing against his skin, he begins to look around the Reikai once more. His mind probes through the space wildly, randomly, looking for anything that even mildly resembles the energy he’d felt during his mission. But it’s all a whirl around him, millions of gods darting in an incomprehensible number of directions.

_Where are you?_

If only he knew the goddess’ name. He’d be able to call out to her, would be able to summon her before him and take in the radiant colors of her aura, would be able to see the power that had torn through his mind and nearly shattered his body.

The light suddenly flares, the colors around him beginning to regain their unearthly splendor. And he feels his grip on reality slip.

_Focus. Focus._

A million marvelous shades flicker across his eyes, the energy of the gods oozing into his mind as they prance before him. The breath leaves him. He can’t feel himself inhale or exhale anymore, can’t feel Shisui behind him.

 _No,_ he thinks forcefully. _My body. I need to focus on my body._

But his mind is already tipping back and his physical self is gone beneath him — he can feel nothing but the steady pulse of the gods’ power. And, once again, he is lost, blissfully unaware of the restraints that tie him to the earthly realm as his mind drifts through the Reikai.

He doesn’t know how long he watches the gods for. Time becomes meaningless in the Reikai: hours bleed into decades, millennia bleed into seconds. There is no telling whether he’s been there for minutes or years. He hardly cares, though; he’ll stay in the Reikai forever if he can, will willingly join the gods in their eternal dance without even giving it a second thought.

_Why don’t you, then?_

He’s not sure where the thought comes from, but it warms the space around him. _Why don’t I?_ he agrees.

A sickeningly bright light blazes around him, then. It drowns out each and every color, disintegrating them all in an instant, flooding the realm in pure white. The voice that follows is low and deep, both a whisper and the loudest sound he’s ever heard. “ _Itachi Uchiha._ ”

Before his disoriented mind can truly register what’s happening, the colors are back, swaying and twirling and embracing him once again. They’re dazzling and glorious, so beautiful that he forgets the white light completely.

The change that follows is gradual. It’s barely noticeable at first, but he perceives it nonetheless: a mild acceleration of the spirits around him. They start spinning faster, darting in quick, frantic bursts. Soon the colors are pulsing, writhing in an increasingly erratic, violent rhythm. The sight makes him dizzy — sick, even. The gods are cutting across his mind, running, pushing past him and _away_ from something.

The voice returns. It echoes straight through him, makes his entire being vibrate. “ _Itachi Uchiha._ ”

Suddenly he is hyper-aware of his body, can sense nearly every inch of it. He can feel the blood flowing through his veins, can feel his very cells splitting apart. A thundering force hammers through his skull and a blazing light rises before him. His field of vision is submerged in white — he is entirely blinded by the monumental force in front of him. He swears he hears the colors scream as they are chased far, far away.

“ _Itachi,_ ” the voice croons. Its tone goes up a pitch. “ _Itachi._ ” The realm shakes. “ _Itachi, Itachi, Itachi, Itachi —_ ” The voice keeps going higher and higher until it breaks apart into a high pitched screech, swamping Itachi’s senses.

Fear grips at him. This isn’t the deity he encountered on his mission — this isn’t a deity he’s encountered at all. He doesn’t know who it is, doesn’t know what it’s capable of. But it’s powerful. Far more powerful than anything he’s ever seen before.

 _I need to leave,_ he realizes. _I need to deactivate my Sharingan and I need to leave._ He tries to focus on his eyes, tries to cut off the flow of chakra going into them.

Nothing happens.

The light is blinding, the shrieking deafening. He tries again. And again and again and again and again and —

 _I can’t stop it._ Dread slinks through him. _I can’t get out._

The light flares even brighter. “ _I-ta-chi,_ ” the voice sings, breaking his name apart and chewing hard on the syllables. The light advances on him, pressing closer and closer until his eyes are burning. He feels the deity reach straight into his mind, feels it grip and tear at everything it can possibly touch.

 _Shisui,_ he thinks desperately. He tries to flare his chakra, tries to send out their distress signal. But he doesn’t know if it’s working, can’t feel it against the overwhelming presence of the deity before him. _Cover my eyes, Shisui. Cover my eyes, cover my eyes, cover my eyes._

The deity has no face, but Itachi is convinced it’s grinning down at him. It sounds amused when it speaks, like it’s enjoying his distress. A familiar, ancient language pores from its essence. “ _I’ve been waiting for —_ ”

His vision drowns in black as the light falls away all at once. He gasps in a rough, haggard breath as his body encapsulates his mind once more, the abrupt transition making hot bile churn in his chest.

Finally, he feels the chakra drain away from his orbital pathways, feels his Sharingan deactivate.

He slumps.

“Hey, hey,” Shisui has a hand over his eyes, blocking them from the mirror. “Are you okay?”

Itachi takes a deep breath. He’s a foreigner in his own skin, has to make an effort to regain any sort of control over his body. He finds the muscles in his neck, focuses on the way his spine connects to his skull and runs down the length of his back.

It takes a moment, but he manages to nod his head minutely.

Shisui’s breath ghosts against his skin in a long exhalation. “Can you see?” he asks.

Itachi takes another breath. His heartbeat is leaping up and into his throat, is hammering painfully against his rib cage. _I’m fine,_ he assures himself. _I’m fine._

He shakes his head.

“Okay,” Shisui says. His hand falls away from Itachi’s face and then he’s shifting back, propping Itachi upright as he stands. Hot needles spread across Itachi’s skin as a hand taps lightly against his shoulder.

“Give me a minute,” Itachi asks, his voice barely above a whisper. Despite the fact that he can’t see, he keeps his eyes turned down towards the floor, away from the mirror.

Shisui taps his hand against Itachi’s shoulder again, insistent. “Come on, we need to get you to the river. You look awful.”

“I’m fine,” he mumbles. His head spins behind his blind eyes. “I don’t need the river.”

Shisui sighs. “Damn it, Itachi.” The hand disappears from his shoulder. “You get five minutes. If you’re not any better by then, we’re going to the river.” Itachi bobs his head, closes his aching eyes.

They sit in silence for a moment. Itachi works on reacquainting himself with his body, flexes his fingers and toes as he tries to remind himself what it feels like to be in the physical realm.

But eventually, he feels the need to say what they’re both thinking. “It was a bad idea,” he admits quietly.

“I told you so,” Shisui says, his voice wry. “You really should listen to me more.”

 _I know,_ he thinks miserably. His cousin had tried to talk him out of looking into the Reikai after Sasuke went up to the altar to pray, had said Itachi wasn’t in any condition after his mission. But Itachi insisted anyway. He wanted to find the deity he had channeled; it would be simple and easy, he figured, nothing he wasn’t capable of even given his exhaustion.

He has to suppress a shudder as he remembers the deity’s voice, the blinding light it had emanated.

_I-ta-chi._

Itachi pushes the thought away, instead focusing on how the tatami mat feels beneath his body. _I’m fine._

“Where’s Sasuke?” he asks.

Shisui sounds like he’s smiling when he answers. “He toughed it out for awhile, but then your mom stopped by. He was so desperate to leave, he nearly dragged her out of the shrine.” Shisui starts chuckling. “I’m actually surprised he stuck around for as long as he did. I told him he could leave, but the kid’s a stickler for the rules, I guess.”

Itachi rolls his wrists, shifts his legs against the ground. “How long was I there this time?”

“About three hours.”

Itachi can’t hold back the wince. He had only intended to be an hour, maybe an hour and a half at most. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Shisui reassures him. “I knew it was probably going to take awhile. Thought you were going to be a lot longer, honestly.” Shisui’s knee shifts against his back. “What made you signal?”

_I-ta-chi._

Not here — he doesn’t want to tell Shisui about it here.

He holds an arm out. “Help me up,” he requests.

Shisui obliges immediately, unperturbed by Itachi’s lack of an answer. He clasps Itachi’s hand and hauls him to his feet with a low grunt. Itachi wobbles, and he’s forced to lean his weight against Shisui to keep from falling over completely.

“You’re sure you don’t want to go to the river?” Shisui asks. “It’ll recenter you. Might make your vision come back faster.“

Itachi shakes his head — the only thing he wants is to get away from the mirrors. “Just take me outside.”

Shisui sighs but acquiesces without further complaint. The world around Itachi is still painfully dark, but he can see the shift in light as they walk out of the prayer hall and into the front room, then again when they walk outside. A cool breeze coasts against his clammy skin, and he breathes in a large gulp of air as it passes by.

_I’m fine._

Shisui leads Itachi over to the steps and lowers him down onto them carefully. The stone is smooth and cool under his palms; he relishes the way it feels against his skin, the fantastic solidity of it. He finds a crack near the corner of the step with his fingertip, small and inconspicuous. He digs his nail into it.

Shisui’s leg brushes against his as he takes a seat next to him. “Did you find the goddess?”

His finger worries at the crack. “No.” _I found something much worse._

He feels Shisui move beside him. “If that’s what’s bothering you, don’t worry about it. The Reikai is a mess. The odds of you finding her were slim to begin with.”

Itachi rubs a hand against the corner of his eye. He can vaguely make out the outline of his legs, now, but the sight brings him little relief.

He swallows, remembering the way the deity had wrapped itself around his mind, had pushed in and in and _in_.

_I-ta-chi._

The words leave his mouth before he’s entirely aware that he’s speaking them. “Something happened.”

**Shisui**

Shisui studies Itachi’s profile in the darkness. He’s staring blankly at the space in front of him, his eyes still hazy after being pulled from the Reikai so abruptly. His expression is entirely stoic, impassive, but Shisui can see the apprehension clear in the line of his shoulders, in the tension he’s holding in his limbs.

It takes a lot to unnerve Itachi, Shisui knows. His cousin isn’t easily intimidated, especially not by anything in the Reikai. He’s comfortable looking inside the realm, will usually spend hours communing with the deities there before eventually pulling himself out, letting his Sharingan fade without so much as a hitch in the rhythm of his breath. It all comes so naturally to Itachi — he has an undeniable instinct for dealing with the Reikai, treats it with all the familiarity of a second home. He doesn’t even bother asking Shisui to anchor him when he looks inside of it anymore, a topic of conversation that never fails to turn into an argument between them. It always starts with Itachi claiming that it’s completely unnecessary, that he’s perfectly capable of getting himself out of the Reikai without any help. Shisui, meanwhile, is nearly at his wit’s end trying to, _oh so patiently_ , get Itachi to understand that having an anchor is a completely harmless precaution to take, and that he will personally kick Itachi’s ass if he keeps bypassing it. But Itachi, of course, never actually listens to him, ignores him completely as he keeps _insisting_ he’ll be fine. They end up calling each other names, throwing around a wildly imaginative cluster of insults. Once Shisui had even threatened to camp outside of the shrine, had promised to keep a constant vigil over the grounds so that he could absolutely body Itachi if he saw him so much as _look_ at the building by himself.

The discussions typically end with Itachi rolling his eyes and muttering something about Shisui being incredibly fucking annoying under his breath. But he inevitably acquiesces, promises Shisui that he’ll find him before his next visit to the shrine. Shisui isn’t ever sure whether he completely believes him, but he leaves it alone, takes Itachi at his word. Because he knows his cousin thinks he’s being an overbearing prick about it all, and he doesn’t want to push him too far, doesn’t want Itachi to stop coming to Shisui with matters regarding their dojutsu because he thinks Shisui will nag him about it.

And he does, admittedly. Nag Itachi, that is. But he does it out of love, and he thinks that’s a rather valid justification. Because it’s not as if Shisui doesn’t understand Itachi’s frustration — he’ll willingly admit that he’s only actually had to intervene in Itachi’s visits to the Reikai a handful of times, a fact Itachi points to incessantly to prove he doesn’t need to bother with an anchor. But Shisui wouldn’t care if Itachi had only ever gotten lost in the Reikai _once_. If it happened before, it could happen again. And that’s reason enough for Shisui to keep pestering his cousin about it.

And it’s not as if anchoring a person is even a considerably difficult job. It’s a simple matter of pulsing chakra into the person’s body, of giving them some sort of physical sensation to focus on so they don’t lose themselves in the Reikai entirely. Sometimes it’s not enough, though; sometimes the person gets so, completely lost that they can’t even begin to find their way back to their bodies. And so the anchor intervenes, forcefully pulls them back to the earthly realm.

Shisui supposes that they’re all relatively lucky in that sense: compared to the absolute torture of being stuck in the realm, freeing a person’s mind from the Reikai is almost comically easy. They only need to have their eyes covered to break the connection, need someone to hide the reflection of their Sharingan from their view. It isn’t the ideal way to leave the Reikai, can riddle a person with a host of short-term side effects, but it beat sitting in the shrine for days on end, just waiting to regain enough bodily sensation to cut off the flow of chakra to their eyes. They all learn about the ramifications when they awaken their Sharingan, are told exactly what to expect if someone covers their eyes while they’re looking into the Reikai. But it never fails to be terrifying when it actually happens. Even Itachi nearly panicked the first time he experienced it.

It happened when Itachi’s Sharingan was still new, when he wasn’t used to the Reikai’s sights and it was still far too easy for him to lose all sense of his body while inside of it. He’d sent out a signal after an hour.

“ _I can’t see._ ” Itachi’s hands had come up to grip at Shisui’s arm mere seconds after leaving the Reikai. His blunt nails had scraped hard against his skin, drawing pinpricks of blood. “ _Shisui, I can’t see._ ”

“ _Relax,_ ” Shisui had said. “ _It’s only temporary. You’ll be fine in a few minutes, I promise._ ” Itachi only nodded, his hold on Shisui tightening slightly. Fear wasn’t a word Shisui had ever associated with Itachi before, but he realized his cousin was scared in that moment — absolutely petrified, in fact. He’d looked every bit the eight-year old he was, his sightless eyes wide as he stared at the nothingness in front of him, trying to breathe through the terror.

Shisui couldn’t save Itachi from that feeling. No one could save any of them from it. But he could at least make sure Itachi didn’t ever have to go through it alone.

It’s been years since he’s actually had to pull Itachi from the Reikai, though. And, he has to admit, his cousin barely even seems fazed by the darkness surrounding him, doesn’t even seem mildly concerned by it, really. It could be because he’s thirteen now, a far-cry from the eight-year old he had been when he first experienced being forcibly pulled from the Reikai. Or it could be because he’s too preoccupied by whatever he’d seen in the realm for the blindness to even register as worrisome.

_Something happened._

Shisui waits for Itachi to explain, but his cousin holds his silence, his eyes dim and unfocused. And so Shisui asks. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Itachi’s answer is immediate. “No.” He grimaces, then, bites at the inside of his cheek. “Yes.”

Shisui doesn’t bother trying to hide the smile that spreads across his face. “Whatever you want,” he assures Itachi. “I’m here either way.”

Itachi takes a breath, taps his foot against the step beneath him. “I couldn’t get out,” he confesses after a moment, his voice low and strained. “I tried to get out, and I couldn’t.”

Shisui stares at his cousin. And stares.

 _...holy crap._ He rubs a hand over his face, chuckling under his breath. Leave it to Itachi to make a big deal out of something so minor. _Maybe this’ll teach him to start using an anchor more often._

“That happens, you know,” he informs Itachi, trying not to sound too amused. “You might not be used to getting lost in the Reikai, but for the rest of us, it’s —“

“No.” Itachi shakes his head, resolute. “I wasn’t lost. My mind was connected to my body, I could feel it. But I still couldn’t deactivate my Sharingan.” His foot is drumming against the stone erratically now, his fingers harmonizing with a random pattern of their own against his leg. “I couldn’t deactivate it,” Itachi repeats. He sounds incredulous, like even he’s trying to come to terms with the fact that it had happened.

Shisui cocks his head to the side, considering Itachi. “You’re sure?”

He scowls. “ _Yes_ , I’m sure,” Itachi says, clearly annoyed. He motions vaguely towards his face, his fingers spread wide. “I could feel the chakra flow and I physically couldn’t cut it off. It wouldn’t let me.”

 _It?_ “What wouldn’t let you?”

Itachi’s foot pauses midair. He raises a hand, scrubs viciously at the corner of his eye. And he stays quiet.

_Something happened._

Shisui leans towards Itachi, the alarm starting to spread under his skin. “Itachi, what wouldn’t —“

“It was just a light,” Itachi mumbles, cutting Shisui off. He continues to stare blankly at the space in front of him. “It had no color, no aura. It was just...bright.”

Shisui frowns. “Did it say anything?”

“My name.” Itachi takes a breath. “It kept saying my name.”

Shisui looks down, sees that Itachi’s foot has resumed its agitated tapping. _There’s more._ “Anything else?” he presses.

It’s subtle, but Itachi’s shoulders tense ever so slightly. “It said it was waiting for something,” he admits, inclining his head towards Shisui. “You pulled me back before it got a chance to say what.”

Shisui _hums_ , feels his brow furrow. “And it just showed up? You didn’t call it?”

“I didn’t call anything,” Itachi insists. “It appeared by itself, and then it stopped me from leaving.” He takes a deep breath, frowns down at his feet. “I didn’t think a god could do that.”

 _A lesser deity couldn’t, no,_ Shisui thinks. _But something greater?_ He remembers how Itachi had described it, the way he had seemed to marvel at the oddity of the deity’s presence: _it was just a light._

But it couldn’t have been. All deities have an aura, Shisui knows. The Sharingan allows its users to see it, allows them to look inside the Reikai and witness the very essence of the gods. But some gods are beyond the Sharingan’s capabilities — some are so powerful that only the Mangekyou can behold them.

A standard Sharingan shouldn’t even be able to perceive a greater deity. But Itachi’s Sharingan has always been stronger than most — he can already call down gods with it, so it isn’t unreasonable that his Sharingan would allow him to discern additional dimensions of the Reikai, Shisui thinks. Maybe Itachi couldn’t make out the deity’s entire essence with his Sharingan, but he could still see some part of it, enough to know it was there, at least.

Though that still only partially explains the situation. There is still the issue of the deity appearing before Itachi without being called upon, of it making an effort to stop Itachi from leaving the Reikai. The gods rarely bother with humans unless beseeched, and even then they sometimes choose to ignore the entreatment. They certainly don’t go out of their way to help them, don’t spend more time around them than absolutely necessary. So for a god to seek Itachi out itself, for it to go out of its way to come before him...

It isn’t good. Not in the slightest.

Shisui looks at his cousin. “That’s odd,” he says, trying to keep from sounding too apprehensive about it.

Itachi bobs his head absentmindedly, wincing as he rubs at his eyes again. He peers over at Shisui, then, squinting.

Shisui raises a brow. “Can you see me?” he asks.

A shrug. “Sort of.”

Shisui leans back and holds up a finger. His middle finger, to be precise. “How many?”

The glare is immediate. Itachi swats at Shisui’s hand, a string of curses falling from his lips. “You’re such a child,” he mutters.

Shisui only laughs, relaxes back against the steps. “Shut up. You know you love me for it.” Itachi doesn’t answer, but Shisui thinks he sees the ghost of a smile flit across his face. 

Insects chirp around them. Itachi keeps his gaze downturned, his eyes trained on his shoes. But when he eventually looks back over at Shisui, his eyes are brighter, his gaze far more focused.

 _At least his vision is returning quickly,_ Shisui thinks.

Itachi considers him silently. Shisui waits, knows his cousin is thinking through the situation, collecting his thoughts. He wonders what Itachi will want to do, tries to guess at what his plan will be. His cousin will hardly avoid the Reikai, he knows. He’ll probably want to go back inside, will probably want to see if the deity will appear before him again. Shisui will admit that he isn’t thrilled by the idea, but he supposes it’ll be fine if he’s there to anchor Itachi. They’ll come up with a signal specifically for the situation, will —

Itachi tilts his head to the side, points down at Shisui’s arm. “There’s a spider on you.”

Shisui blinks. “What?”

Itachi jabs his finger in the air, pointing at the same spot. “It’s moving,” he informs Shisui matter of factly.

“What —“ Shisui looks down, sees an abnormally large spider slowly crawling up his forearm. “ _Motherfucker_.“ He jumps up in a rush, flails. “Get off, get off, _get off_!“ He unloads a cacophony of curses into the atmosphere, swiping at every inch of his body.

The spider is gone when he looks back down, but he still shudders at the mere memory of it. _Fucking creepy ass motherfucking —_ He takes a breath, wraps his arms tightly around his torso.

Itachi’s smirking when he turns back to him.

“Shut up,” Shisui grumbles, sitting back down next to his cousin.

“I didn’t say anything,” Itachi points out.

“You didn’t have to, jerk — your face says it all,” he accuses. 

He hears Itachi try and fail to cover up a laugh. “It’s a perfectly common phobia —“

Shisui groans. He buries his head between his knees, feels the back of his neck start to warm. “Shut. Up.” Itachi lets out another laugh, but he doesn’t comment further.

The silence that descends on them doesn’t last long. “Which god do you think it was?” Itachi asks after a few seconds.

Shisui sighs, rests his chin on his arms. “Not sure,” he admits. “It didn’t give us a lot to work with. But it’s probably a greater deity, one that normally can’t be seen without the Mangekyou.” Shisui scratches idly at his arm, feels the ghost of the spider walking up it. “I’ll look into it, see if I can find anything in the lore. Try and stay out of the Reikai until then, alright?”

For once, Itachi doesn’t argue. “Yeah, alright.” From the corner of his eye, Shisui sees Itachi shift, spreading his legs out in front of him with a small wince.

Shisui grins at him. “So are you going to admit the river would’ve been a good idea now, or later?”

Itachi rolls his eyes, settles himself more comfortably against the stone. “I’m fine,” he insists.

“So later, then?” Shisui shrugs, nods to himself. “That’s fine. I can wait.”

Itachi scoffs. “Don’t hold your breath.”

He reaches a hand out, shoving hard at Itachi’s arm. “We’ll see.”

Itachi pushes back at him automatically. “Quit it,” he grumbles.

“Why?” Shisui prods at him again. “You going to do something about it?”

“Would you knock it off?” Itachi grabs at Shisui, trying to restrain him. It’s all too easy to pull away from Itachi’s exhausted grasp, though, and he immediately counters his cousin’s attack by reaching out and bullying him into a headlock.

“Why don’t _you_ knock it off —“

“ _Not on the steps!_ ” A shrill, familiar voice cries behind them. “There is no fighting on shrine grounds!”

Itachi and Shisui both freeze at the sound of Suou’s shouts. 

Shisui looks down at his cousin, gives him a sheepish smile as he releases his hold on him. “Don’t be mad,” he requests.

Itachi’s eyes widen. “Don’t you dare leave —“

Shisui flickers.


	3. Lies and Misunderstandings

**Sasuke**

Sasuke knows that he isn’t supposed to whine. His father always tells him that it’s unbecoming behavior, that Uchiha don’t conduct themselves in such an immature, petulant manner. Which would be a fine argument, Sasuke thinks, if he didn’t know Shisui, who complains and moans about plenty of stupid things. Like the one time his cousin spent an entire weekend grieving his broken kunai holster (it was apparently his favorite), or the sheer conglomeration of hours he’s wasted cursing at Itachi about his dango because _”why, for the love of the gods, will you give Sasuke a dumpling but not me?”_ (Though, in Sasuke’s defense, he always asks for a dumpling very nicely — Shisui just reaches over and tries to grab one).

But, regardless of how immature Shisui may act, Sasuke knows that his father would hardly be moved by the argument. Because, while Father says that Uchiha in general don’t behave in such a way, what he really means is that _Itachi_ doesn’t behave in such a way. And so Sasuke, naturally, is meant to follow suit. Which isn’t entirely fair, in his opinion, because Itachi is _Itachi_ and Sasuke...isn’t. No matter how hard he might try to be.

Sasuke knows what everyone says about his brother, has had it shoved in his face since the day he was born. Itachi is a _prodigy_ , they say, a _genius_. He’s the pride and joy of the Uchiha clan, blessed by the gods themselves, a true heir of the Sharingan. He will lead the clan to greatness, will restore the Uchiha’s honor and dignity within the village, _blah blah blah_. Sasuke’s heard it all thousands of times, spends every waking moment drowning in the magnitude of his brother’s mythos. Everyone seems wholly incapable of speaking to him without somehow bringing the conversation back around to Itachi, of mentioning any of Sasuke’s accomplishments without immediately comparing them to his brother’s.

_”This is a fine report card, Sasuke! I see you’re top of your class. Did you know that Itachi graduated the Academy at your age?”_

_“You’ll be eight soon, right, Sasuke? I think Itachi was only eight when he mastered the Sharingan.”_

_“You learned a new shuriken jutsu? That’s great! I think Itachi could use the clan’s Fireball Jutsu before he graduated the Academy. Do you know the Fireball Jutsu yet, Sasuke?”_

It never ends. The clan is obsessed with his brother, plain and simple. _Itachi this, Itachi that. Itachi, Itachi, Itachi._ They can’t help it, none of them. His brother is a constant presence in their minds, while Sasuke is merely an afterthought.

That is, if he’s even remembered at all.

Surprisingly, the remark that had hurt the most didn’t even come from an Uchiha — it had come from one of the Academy instructors. It happened after his entrance ceremony, when a grinning chunin made a beeline towards Sasuke and his father immediately following its conclusion.

“Fugaku!” The man held up a hand. “I could hardly believe it when I saw you in the crowd. I had no idea you had another son!”

 _I had no idea you had another son._ Because why would he? Who is Sasuke compared to Itachi? Itachi is the one everyone cares about, the one that gets all of the attention. Sasuke is entirely forgettable by comparison, his presence not even worth a passing mention, apparently.

And to make matters worse, Sasuke knows it’s true. He tries to ignore it, tries to pretend like it doesn’t bother him, but even he can’t deny how painfully aware he is of his own inadequacy when placed next to his brother. He used to think Itachi’s power was attainable, used to think that, if he just worked hard enough, the gods would take notice of him, too, would change their minds and view him as worthy of their blessings as well. But days and weeks and months and years have passed and Sasuke is no closer to being anything like Itachi. He is still just Sasuke, the unremarkable little brother of a genius.

And, given that, he thinks it’s only fair that he be allowed to complain a little.

However, he’s aware that _I’m not Itachi_ makes for a fairly poor excuse when arguing that he should be allowed to whine about _some_ things. Which is unfortunate, because it’s not like he’s asking for the rule to be revoked completely — he doesn’t want to complain about kunai holsters or dango, realizes that isn’t the best use of anyone’s time. But he thinks he should be allowed to complain on a few occasions. Like, for instance, if Itachi is nearly an hour late for dinner and his mother refuses to serve the food until he gets home despite how terribly hungry her youngest son is. Things like that, in Sasuke’s opinion, seem very reasonable to make a fuss over.

He’s held his silence so far, has made a valiant effort to keep himself from asking if they can eat yet five gazillion times in a row. But Itachi is still not back, and his father is off in his office with the door tightly shut. So Sasuke decides to press his luck.

Sasuke tugs at his mother’s sleeve. “Are we eating yet?” he asks, trying his best to keep his voice low.

His mother purses her lips, plays with the oven knobs. “Soon,” she promises.

Sasuke tries not to pout. He glances at the doorway — still no sign of Father. “ _How_ soon?”

Mother twists around slightly, looking down the hall. She stares for a moment, and it seems like she’s almost willing Itachi to manifest out of the shadows, willing his body to suddenly materialize and walk into the kitchen.

The hall remains empty.

Sasuke tugs at her sleeve again. “Mother?”

She looks over at the clock on the wall, then down at him with a sigh. He flinches back as she ruffles his hair. “I suppose we can eat now,” she says, turning the oven knob off with a quick flick of her wrist. Angling her head towards the door, she grabs at the plates lying on the counter. “Go tell your father.”

 _Thank the gods._ Sasuke grins, already turning to race out of the room. “Okay!”

“No running in the house,” his mother reminds him as he darts away. He immediately skids to a stop, changes his pace to a brisk walk.

His father’s office is towards the end of the hall, a few doors down from his room. Sasuke’s never actually been inside of it, has only ever seen it through the crack of the door.

Itachi gets to go in it nearly every day. Or he does when he’s actually home, at least.

Sasuke knocks lightly at the door now. “Father? Mother said to tell you that we’re eating dinner now.”

A low grunt emanates from within the room. “I’ll be right there,” his father says.

Sasuke doesn’t move, keeps standing outside the door. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for, what he expects to happen. He should really go back to the kitchen, should help his mother set the table. But he doesn’t want to leave. Not yet.

Minutes pass. Father doesn’t emerge from his office, and so Sasuke forces himself to turn around and head back into the kitchen. His mother is still over by the counter when he enters. She looks over when he walks in, sees that he’s alone. “Is your father coming?”

Sasuke nods, moves to sit at his spot at the table. “Yeah,” he says.

Mother scoops a serving of food onto a plate, shaking her head. “You boys,” she sighs, exasperated.

Sasuke feels himself pout. _I didn’t even do anything,_ he thinks. _Itachi and Father are the ones who are late._

His father chooses that moment to walk into the kitchen, scratching idly at his chin. Sasuke looks up, sees Father scan his eyes over the room. His gaze passes right over Sasuke, focusing instead on Itachi’s empty seat.

“Is Itachi not back yet?” Father asks, lowering himself onto his mat.

Mother lays a plate of food in front of Father and shakes her head. “He’s probably still at the shrine,” she says. “He was there earlier with Shisui.”

 _I was there, too,_ Sasuke thinks sourly. _Not that anyone cares._

Father frowns, picks up his chopsticks. “I told him to find me when he returned from his mission.”

“He wasn’t feeling well when he came home,” Mother says, starting to put together Sasuke’s own plate. His mouth is nearly watering when she finally hands him his food, the chopsticks already balanced between his fingers. He accepts it with a small _thank you_ before immediately depositing it onto the table, grabbing a large piece of meat and shoving it into his mouth.

Father looks at her. “His Sharingan?”

Sasuke hesitates at his father’s words before taking another bite. _Not his Sharingan,_ he thinks. _Just his stupid little brother who angered the gods._

Mother _hums_ , taking a seat at the table with her own plate. “I imagine. He didn’t say, though.”

“And he thought it was a good idea to go to the shrine after?”

Her only answer is a shrug, as if that alone offers enough of an explanation.

Father sighs. “Sometimes I don’t know what that boy is thinking,” he mutters.

They eat in silence, then. Mother keeps glancing towards the hallway, obviously hoping that Itachi will show up soon, while Father keeps his gaze locked on the edge of the table, completely lost in thought. Sasuke, meanwhile, stays quiet and tries not to chew his food too loudly.

He’s nearly finished eating when Itachi finally comes home.

Sasuke sees his mother react before he actually realizes Itachi is back. She straightens in her seat suddenly, her eyes locked on the doorway as she gently places her chopsticks down. It’s only then that Sasuke looks over and sees Itachi walking into the room, his head down as he lowers himself into the empty seat opposite Sasuke. Father glances up as well, Itachi’s mere presence enough to grab his attention.

They all sit silently, staring at him. Waiting.

Itachi rubs at his eyes. “Sorry I’m late,” he mumbles.

His voice spurs their mother into motion. “That’s alright, dear,” she assures him, reaching over and laying a careful hand on his arm. “Do you want some dinner?”

His brother nods. “Please,” he says, the word a mere whisper. Mother lifts herself to her feet, makes her way over to the pots and pans still lying on the stovetop.

Father’s attention is entirely focused on Itachi, his own food well forgotten. When Itachi moves to touch his eyes again, Father reaches out and grips Itachi’s wrist. “Don’t do that,” he chides, his voice gruff.

Itachi sighs. He pulls his hand away gently, tucks both of them into his lap. “Yes, sir.” His gaze stays locked on the table.

Father continues to stare at Itachi, a frown pulling at his face. “I heard you were at the shrine,” he finally says.

Itachi only grunts, and Sasuke has to clench his jaw to make sure it doesn’t end up hitting the ground. The answer is noncommittal — blatantly disrespectful, really. Sasuke looks at them both, wide-eyed. His mother’s movements at the counter stutter ever so slightly behind him.

Father’s face remains entirely stoic, but something shifts in the air around him. “You were supposed to report to me.”

Sasuke watches as Mother carefully walks back over to the table and hands Itachi his plate of food. He doesn’t look up as he grabs it, just gives her a mumbled _thank you_ as he reaches out and places it on the table.

“I had to do something first,” Itachi says, addressing their father once again. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t touch the food.

Sasuke is mildly tempted to ask his mother for a second helping before she sits down, but a heavy tension has layered the room. It wraps around Sasuke’s throat, squeezing until he’s convinced that, even if he tries to speak, nothing will come out.

His mother sits back down.

Father is still peering at Itachi, and Sasuke can’t entirely place his expression. He looks almost hesitant — perplexed, maybe, by Itachi’s strange behavior. And it _is_ strange, Sasuke realizes. Because Itachi never acts like this. His brother is respectful and polite, is beyond courteous to complete strangers. He isn’t disrespectful towards anyone, least of all Mother and Father.

Sasuke looks down at his empty plate, tries to keep an eye on Itachi from under his lashes. _He was fine a few hours ago, though,_ Sasuke thinks. _What changed?_

Itachi’s arm twitches, and he reaches a hand up to rub at his eye again. He seems to think better of it at the last minute, though, and places it back in his lap, his shoulders slouching forward as he forces it away from his face.

Both of his parents have their eyes glued to Itachi, are scrutinizing his every movement. Sasuke can’t claim to be bothered by the lack of attention, because even he can see that something is terribly, terribly wrong with his brother.

Sasuke flinches at the sudden sound of his father’s voice. “Look at me,” he orders.

For a fleeting moment, Sasuke thinks his father is speaking to him. He feels himself flush and immediately brings his gaze up, turning towards Father and readying an apology on his lips and —

Father isn’t looking at him. He’s looking at Itachi.

_Oh._

His brother doesn’t even need to look up to realize Father is talking to him. Sasuke sees his jaw jump from across the table. “My eyes are fine,” his brother says.

 _His...eyes?_ They were red earlier today, Sasuke remembers, but Itachi’s eyes had seemed fine when they all went to the shrine. Maybe praying did something to them?

“It wasn’t a request, Itachi.” Father shifts, leans towards his brother. “Look at me. I won’t ask again.”

Sasuke watches Itachi’s shoulders rise as he takes a deep, deep breath. “I’m fine,” he insists.

“Itachi.” It’s a final warning, clearly.

Itachi jerks his head up then, turns to face their father. The harsh movement takes Sasuke completely by surprise, and he feels himself shrink back from it despite being nowhere near his brother.

_Something is wrong._

Itachi’s mouth is set in a hard, straight line as Father grips his face, moving in close to inspect his eyes. Itachi tolerates the treatment, allows Father to tilt his head this way and that without a single complaint. But Sasuke thinks he can see a hint of annoyance in the set of his brother’s shoulders, a hint of anger.

“Well, they’re inflamed,” his father eventually announces, “and your pupils are dilated. How do they feel?”

At this point, even Sasuke can predict what Itachi’s answer will be. “Fine.”

Father frowns. “Itachi —”

“Can I eat?” Itachi’s request is small, tired. Sasuke doesn’t think he’s ever heard his brother sound so exhausted before. “Please?”

Father doesn’t move his hand from Itachi’s face. 

“Fugaku.” Mother says his name so carefully, acts as if it might break apart in her mouth if her voice lands too hard on the syllables of it. “You can talk after dinner, can’t you?”

It takes a moment, but Father finally nods, never once taking his eyes off of Itachi. “Fine.” His hold on Itachi’s face tightens. “After dinner, you’re going to tell me exactly what happened on this mission, and then you’re going to explain why you didn't report to me when you got back. Do I make myself clear?”

Two painful seconds tick by before Itachi eventually nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Father takes his hand away, then, returns his attention back to his food. Itachi does the same, stiffly picking up his chopsticks and poking at the contents of his plate. There are bright, red splotches along his jaw where Father’s fingers had dug into his skin, and Sasuke belatedly wonders whether they hurt.

Minutes pass. No one speaks. Sasuke desperately wants to leave, wants to go off to his room and get away from his father and brother. He doesn’t know what’s happening, doesn’t understand why his brother is acting like this. He’s starting to think that maybe the gods didn’t forgive him, that maybe they healed some of Itachi’s injuries earlier today just to inflict new ones later. Or maybe Itachi found out what he did, the gods telling him all about Sasuke’s insolence while he prayed. Maybe he’s just angry, blaming Sasuke for the pain he’d been in. But Sasuke doesn’t know why he would be mad at Father, then, or why everyone would think that this has to do with his Sharingan —

Itachi suddenly drops his chopsticks, putting a hand against his mouth and swallowing hard. His eyes are wide as he stares down at his half-eaten meal.

“Itachi?” Mother asks. “Are you okay?”

His brother doesn’t answer, and Sasuke feels a familiar panic crawl up his throat. _The gods didn’t forgive me._

Father looks up, levels his gaze at Itachi. “Your mother asked you a question.”

 _Say something,_ Sasuke begs. _Please just say something._

Itachi stays quiet.

His father’s eyes harden into a glare. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” he starts, his voice thrumming with rage, “but —”

His brother is suddenly moving, then, launching himself up and over to the counter in a few large strides. Sasuke watches, eyes wide, as Itachi lands hard against the sink and heaves into it. Vomit splats against the metal.

“Oh, dear.” Their mother gets up and rushes over to his side. She lays a hand on Itachi’s back, starts to rub circles across it as she uses her other hand to brush the hair away from his face. Her voice devolves into quiet whispers as she comforts Itachi, murmuring soothing words into his ear as he gags.

Father doesn’t move. He just sits, staring at them.

When he finally regards Sasuke, he’s almost certain that it’s the first time his father has actually looked at him since he sat down to eat.

“Go to your room.”

**Itachi**

The nausea pulses tightly through his throat. He takes a shaky breath, rests his forehead against the counter.

His mother’s fingers brush lightly over the back of his neck. “Want some water?” she asks. Itachi doesn’t bother answering — the cabinet is already _creaking_ open, the glasses _clinking_ against each other as his mother takes one down from the shelf. She shifts and Itachi hears her drag the pitcher over from the corner. The sound of water being poured into the glass makes his stomach churn.

He groans, squeezes his eyes shut. _Shit._ Not that he’ll ever admit it to Shisui, but he probably should have gone to the river. 

Mother places a hand between his shoulder blades. He opens his eyes and turns his head slightly, sees the glass of water being held out to him. “Here.”

Itachi takes a breath, the air scraping hard against his burning throat. He leans his elbows on the counter and reaches over to take the glass. “Thank you.”

His mother starts rubbing circles along his spine as he takes a drink. He rolls the water around his tongue, pushes it hard between his teeth in a vain attempt to rid himself of the taste of vomit. When he spits the water down into the sink, a portion of his puke goes down the drain with it.

Itachi grimaces. In hindsight, he probably should’ve run to the garbage instead — it would’ve made for an easier clean up, at least. Now he’ll have to spend the night wiping the sink down, dousing it with disinfectant to try and get rid of the smell. 

He places the glass off to the side and reaches out towards the faucet, intending to wash most of the vomit down the drain, but Mother stops him with a gentle hand. “It’s alright,” she tells him. “I’ll take care of it.”

Itachi shakes his head. “It’s fine, I can —”

“You should lie down,” she interrupts. “Rest.”

 _Rest._ Gods, what he wouldn’t give to just be able to _rest_.

He feels his father’s eyes drilling into his back, though, and so he shakes his head again. “I’m okay,” he says, turning to look at her. “Really.”

She hardly looks convinced. And, given his current state, Itachi can’t really blame her.

He leans into her body, tries to reassure her. “I’ll clean it,” he repeats.

His mother lets out a choked, almost sad laugh. “You act like I’ve never cleaned your puke up before,” she says, giving him a small smile and running a hand through his hair. She leans forward, kisses the top of his head. “Don’t worry about it, alright?”

He hesitates but eventually nods, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” she assures him. “How about I make you some tea? It’ll help your stomach.”

Just the mere thought makes his nausea return. He tries not to let it show on his face, though, knows it’ll make her feel better to do something. “Thank you.” Itachi gives her a small, fleeting smile.

He makes sure to wipe it from his face completely as he turns back around to confront his father.

Father hasn’t moved from the table, but his arms are now crossed and a frown is etched onto his face. Sasuke’s seat is empty beside him.

Itachi takes a breath. _Just get it over with._ He meets his father’s gaze. “I’m done eating,” he says.

His father doesn’t move — he just sits, considering him. Itachi waits, allows the silence to spread over the room.

Father eventually sighs. “I won’t make you do this now,” he says, starting to push himself up and away from the table. “Go clean up. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

 _Tomorrow._ Itachi doesn’t want to deal with this now, let alone drag it over into another day. He feels like shit, but he thinks that might bode well for him, might make his father slightly more lenient.

“I’d like to talk now, if that’s alright,” he says, his voice scraping hard against his raw throat.

Father stops, looks at him. “You’re sure?”

 _No._ Itachi nods. “Yes, sir.”

His father’s shoulders lift as he takes a breath. “Alright, then.” He angles his head towards the door. “We’ll talk in the office.”

Itachi feels his mother watching them as they walk out. He knows she’s worried, and he knows he’s doing a terrible job at convincing her that nothing’s wrong. Which he supposes makes sense, because there _are_ things wrong. Plenty of them.

_I-ta-chi._

He shouldn’t have come home, should’ve just gone to Shisui’s apartment after Suou finished lecturing him. He could’ve stayed there for the night, regained his energy and then gone to face his parents in the morning. His father would’ve been furious, undoubtedly, and his mother worried sick, but Itachi at least would’ve had his wits about him when he spoke to them, would’ve been able to at least make a decent effort pretending everything was fine. They would’ve been suspicious, but he could’ve gotten away with it, he thinks. He could’ve.

But now they’ve seen his eyes. Seen him throw up. And they know something is amiss.

Itachi stays a few steps behind Father as they make their way down the hall. They pass by Sasuke’s shut door. Father doesn’t even glance at it, but Itachi can’t help but look towards it as the guilt tugs hard at his chest.

He hadn’t heard Sasuke leave the kitchen, but he imagines his father had dismissed him, had told him to go off to his room. There’s no doubt that he wasn’t given a decent explanation as to why — Father never gives him any sort reason, doesn’t even try to make up a lie. Sasuke isn’t old enough to know the full truth of their dojutsu, but Itachi still thinks he should be told _something_ , shouldn’t just be shuffled off to a corner of the house while the rest of them discuss whatever issue has come up. It’s unfair at best, and cruel at worst. Because it’s not as if his brother asked for this. He didn’t ask to be born an Uchiha, didn’t ask to have Itachi as a sibling. Sometimes Itachi wonders how much his brother resents him for it all, how much he wishes Itachi would just disappear from his life. It would be an improvement for him, surely. He would be groomed as the next clan leader, would be doted on endlessly. There would be no secret conversations, no whispered meetings behind closed doors. And he wouldn’t have to constantly fight for Father’s attention.

Itachi knows his brother loves him — he does. But he can’t help but think he also hates him a little, too. 

They reach the end of the hall and Father slides open his office door, stepping to the side and allowing Itachi to walk inside. The room is covered in thick, heavy shadows, but Itachi pays them no mind as he walks straight to the table at the back of the room and takes a seat in front of it.

The office is engulfed in dull light as his father lights the candles near the entrance. Itachi keeps his head down as he watches his father’s shadow move across the floor, stretching and shrinking as he walks over to the other side of the table.

He sits down. And he stays silent.

Itachi looks up, sees that his father is staring at him. He feels pressed to speak, to say something, but he bites down on his tongue, refuses to open his mouth. He won’t be the one to begin this conversation. Though he requested the meeting, he knows better than to start it himself, to try and control the flow of it. If he’s going to hide the truth from his father, he’s going to need to be extremely, _extremely_ careful. He can’t risk making any mistakes, can’t risk stumbling and tripping over his words. He won’t broach any subject himself — he will wait to be asked a question, and then he will answer it. That’s how he’ll get through this.

He waits. Father’s expression remains entirely blank. And Itachi knows at that moment that his father will sit in silence for hours if he has to, waiting for Itachi to speak first.

Itachi scrubs his tongue hard over his teeth. _I can’t let him think I’m being difficult,_ he thinks. _It won’t make this any easier._ He can concede this point. It won’t kill him.

He settles on a neutral question, something easy. “You wanted to talk to me about the mission?” he asks.

Father doesn’t react in the slightest. And the silence drags on.

Itachi doesn’t know how long they sit like that. He’s almost convinced his father isn’t going to talk at all, is just going to stare at him. Itachi isn’t sure what he’s waiting for, isn’t sure what he expects to happen. Surely he doesn’t think Itachi will just start rambling, will reveal absolutely everything he’d done that day and beg for his father’s forgiveness if he just waits long enough? Or perhaps he’s just thinking, trying to figure out the best way to go about getting Itachi to tell him what happened?

When his father finally speaks, Itachi hardly expects the direction he decides to take the conversation in. “How do you feel?”

It’s an effort to keep his face still. He expected a question about the mission, about his whereabouts today. Not about his well-being.

He keeps his gaze steady. “I’m fi — ”

His father holds up a hand, stops him. “You just threw up in the kitchen, Itachi.” He sounds tired. Frustrated. “How do you _actually_ feel?”

Itachi swallows. He supposes he can be honest about this part. It’s not as if it isn’t painfully obvious, anyway. “Sick,” he admits.

Father nods, clearly expecting the answer. “Because of your Sharingan?”

Itachi hates to admit it, hates the way the disgrace of it settles in his bones. But he can hardly hide the truth now. “Yes.”

“I take it the mission was difficult, then?”

_The mission. The goddess._

“The mission went smoothly,” he recites robotically. “We infiltrated the Land of Grass and extracted the scroll with little incident. Our team only encountered one enemy cell on our way back, and —”

“No,” his father interrupts. “I want to know what happened.”

Itachi pauses, momentarily confused by his father’s request since that’s quite literally what he was in the process of doing. So he continues. “There were three enemies: I handled one, and my teammate handled the others. We incapacitated them and returned to the Leaf —”

Father groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Gods be good, why are you being so difficult?”

 _I’m being difficult?_ He has to stop himself from making a face. “You asked me what happened on the mission.”

“Your Sharingan,” his father breathes, sounding wholly exasperated now. “What happened with your Sharingan?”

It’s an effort not to scowl at him. _You should have specified, then._

Itachi takes a breath, tries to calm himself. Because this is the tricky part — he needs to stick to as much of the truth as he can, here. “I overtaxed it.”

“By calling down gods?”

He hesitates, then nods.

Father taps his fingers against his arm. “How many?”

 _Easy._ “One.”

“Who?”

He says the first name that comes to mind. “Koujin.”

Father raises an eyebrow. “You’ve communed with him before.” It isn’t a question.

Itachi nods, answers anyway. “I have.”

“So what went wrong?”

He shrugs. “I channeled a bit more energy than usual.” It isn’t a lie.

His father’s expression doesn’t change. “Did you request more power or did Koujin force it on you?”

“I requested it.” Because he did. Technically. Just not from Koujin.

“And you couldn’t handle it.”

Itachi has to stop himself from recoiling at the statement’s bluntness. His father might as well have reached across the table and hit him. “It wasn’t a problem,” he says, trying not to grit his teeth. “My body just wasn’t used to it, is all.”

Father angles his head to the side. “So you think you could do it again?”

He remembers the headache, remembers the agony that had wracked through him. The small vial Shisui had produced. The immediate relief it had brought.

_”Don’t expect to be taking it all the time, now; that shit will kill you after awhile.”_

He takes a breath. “Yes.”

Father nods, seemingly satisfied by his answer. “Build up your tolerance slowly,” he instructs. “I don’t know how much power you actually took on, but you clearly overdid it this time. I’m assuming you went to discuss it with Koujin at the shrine?”

 _That works._ “Yes.”

“And that’s why you failed to report to me?”

 _Failed._ The word is harsh, grates against his eardrums. But he can’t deny it — it’s exactly what happened. He’d _failed_ to report to his father. Had he done it on purpose, he thinks the disappointment would’ve been easier to swallow. But the reality of the situation is that he had really, in all honesty, just forgotten. It slipped his mind entirely, first buried underneath the pain piercing through his eyes, then lost amidst his staggering encounter with the deity. He hadn’t even remembered it was something he was supposed to do until his father mentioned it at dinner, and even then he couldn’t completely recall having the conversation. _Had_ his father said to meet with him? For what reason? The mission wasn’t particularly notable, had little to no political importance to the clan — nothing about it should have piqued his father’s interest.

But he wasn’t about to say all of that, so he was left with a choice: would he rather be perceived as insolent, or incompetent?

The decision, surprisingly, had been fairly easy to make. Insolence, in his mind, can be forgiven. The consequence of a bad day, maybe, of an exhausting, weeklong mission. It’s excusable, ultimately, maybe even forgettable if Itachi plays his hand correctly. But to be seen as incompetent? As inefficient? That is a _weakness_. It exists as an inherent fault within himself — it’s something that can’t be fixed, only exploited. And he can’t afford to look weak. Not in front of his father.

He loads the lie onto his tongue. “Yes.”

Father keeps his eyes on him. Itachi makes sure not to shift under his scrutiny, keeps himself completely still as he’s observed. The story is believable enough — there’s nothing that should make his father question its validity. 

Father sighs, then, uncrosses his arms. “I understand the urgency to look into the Reikai after something like that, Itachi. I really do.” He levels him with a flat stare. “But if I ask you to report to me, I expect you to report to me. Immediately. Is that understood?”

Itachi lets out a breath he hadn’t entirely realized he’d been holding. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Father nods to himself. “So, how is Kakashi Hatake, then?”

 _Kakashi Hatake._ The conversation comes back to him with startling clarity, now, the reason his father wanted to talk to him about the mission in the first place. It had nothing to do with the assignment; it had to do with his teammate.

“Kakashi still hasn’t figured out how to fully utilize the Sharingan,” Itachi says dutifully. “He continues to wield it at a very basic level, mostly using the spiritual energy he’s channeling to see chakra and perceive movement.” Itachi pauses, then, considering. “I doubt he knows that the Sharingan siphons spiritual energy at all, honestly.”

Father _hums_. “That’s ideal. He doesn’t have the Mangekyou, correct?”

“I don’t believe so, no.” Itachi frowns. “Can he awaken the Mangekyou?”

His father purses his lips, absently scratches at his cheek. “I don’t know,” he admits. “There’s not much record regarding what happens when someone other than an Uchiha uses the Sharingan. But anything is possible, I suppose.” Father sighs. He wipes a hand over his face, pinches the bridge of his nose, and it’s only then that Itachi realizes how exhausted he actually is. “It’s a precarious situation,” he admits. “The majority of the clan doesn’t care that Obito gave it to him — they still refuse to accept that an outsider has the Sharingan. But really, my only concern is him communing with the gods. As long as he doesn’t figure out how to do that, I can convince the rest of the clan that he doesn’t need to be eliminated.” 

_Doesn’t need to be eliminated._ He says it so nonchalantly, as if it’s a decision that could be made over breakfast. “And you don’t think he needs to be eliminated?” It’s not the first time Itachi has asked the question. But he wants to hear his father say it again.

“The Sharingan should remain within the Uchiha clan,” Father affirms. “But Obito gave it to Kakashi as his dying wish. And we should honor that.”

A warm relief settles across Itachi’s shoulders. “I agree.”

“I know.” His father leans forward and rests his elbows on the table, then, and Itachi feels his own body immediately relax in response. The interrogation is over for now, at least.

They sit in silence for a few passing moments before Father glances over Itachi’s shoulder, angling his head to the side. “Where’s your mother?”

Itachi finds a loose thread at the bottom of his shirt with his fingers, starts to pick at it. “What do you mean?”

Father makes a vague gesture with his hand, motioning first towards the door and then back at Itachi. “Didn’t she say she was going to bring you some tea?”

 _Tea._ He’d forgotten about that as well, actually. “She’s probably waiting for us to finish,” he says, hoping his father will take the hint and dismiss him.

He doesn’t. Instead, he changes the subject completely. “How was the Reikai?”

 _Damn it._ Itachi takes a breath, tries not to sound too annoyed. “Fine.”

“Your mother said you went with Shisui. I’m assuming he anchored you?”

“He did.”

“Not a terrible precaution to take,” his father acknowledges. “Though I doubt you ended up needing it.”

Itachi takes one second too long to respond, and realization dawns on his father. A look of pure shock passes over his face as he sits up. “You had to be pulled from the Reikai today?”

 _You had to be pulled._ The shame burns at him, and he has to stop his shoulders from slumping under the weight of it. “I was tired,” he says. A pitiful excuse, really. But not exactly a lie.

_I-ta-chi._

His father remains completely still as he considers him. “That’s not like you.”

He’s not sure what to say to that. And so he shrugs.

Father doesn’t speak immediately after. Itachi can practically feel him weighing his actions on a scale, can feel him deciding whether he will forgive him for his behavior or not.

Eventually, his father comes to a decision. “You’ve had a long day,” he says. “Go get some rest.”

Itachi wastes no time getting to his feet. _Thank the gods._ “Yes, sir.”

And he leaves.

**Shisui**

Shisui wakes with a start, the papers underneath his arms _crumpling_ loudly as his body jerks upright. He reaches for a weapon automatically, grasping blindly for the tantou on his back.

His fingers only brush air.

Shisui freezes. He blinks at his surroundings, his mind struggling to catch up with what’s happening. _And what is happening, exactly?_

Well...

He looks around, assesses the situation.

...nothing, actually. Absolutely nothing is happening.

Relaxing ever so slightly, Shisui lowers his arm back down to his side. His apartment is layered with shadows, the candle he’d lit earlier long extinguished. The only light in the room now comes from the dull glow of the street-lamps outside his window. He listens, waits for some sort of noise, waits to see if anything around him is amiss. But everything is quiet and hushed. Peaceful. Still.

With a low groan, Shisui rests his elbows against the table and rubs at the sleep in his eyes. _I must have passed out while reading,_ he thinks. He drags a hand over his face, tries to wake himself up. _Okay, shit, what was I —_ Saliva slides against his palm, spreads across the entirety of his cheek.

Shisui grimaces, then sighs. “Damn it.” He hunches up a shoulder, scrapes his face against the fabric of his shirt in an effort to soak the spit up. Using his fingers, he starts to feel along the paper on the table. _Please just tell me I didn’t drool on the scroll._

He works his way down the length of it, not entirely sure where his head had been. The paper seems dry enough, though, and he starts to think that he’d actually managed to avoid this particular mishap.

Then his thumb brushes over a wet spot.

“Fucking —” Shisui leans over, reignites the candle at the corner of the table with a quick spark of chakra. A circle of luminous, flickering light encompasses him, and he has to squint his eyes against the sudden brightness of it. 

_Now where the hell..._ He scans the scroll, locates the dark spot on the paper. Frowning, he lifts the bottom of his shirt and starts to dab at it.

 _It should be fine if I just leave it out to dry,_ he thinks. _I can probably —_

_Knock, knock._

His head snaps up, his eyes zeroing in on the front door. He doesn’t move.

A few moments pass and the sound repeats, louder this time. More impatient. _Knock, knock._

Shisui glances over at the clock, has to squint through the bleariness still coating his eyeballs to make out the numbers.

1:43 AM

Raising an eyebrow, Shisui looks back over at the door. The only person who ever comes to his apartment this late is Itachi, but his cousin certainly wouldn’t bother knocking once, let alone twice.

His Sharingan spins to life. Sharp needles jab at the backs of his eyes as the spiritual energy presses against them, trying to force its way out. He allows a small portion of it to filter through, and the world around him shifts into sharp clarity.

_Knock, knock._

Shisui lifts himself to his feet, crawls his way slowly over to the entrance of his apartment. He passes by his dresser and swipes an arm over the top of it, his hand wrapping around cold metal as he grabs the kunai lying there.

_Knock, knock, knock, knock._

Shisui stops at the door. He reaches up slowly, carefully grips the handle with one hand while adjusting his hold on the kunai with the other.

 _Breathe._ Bracing himself, he slides the door open in one quick, smooth motion.

What he finds on the other side is hardly expected. In fact, it’s almost bizarre. The kunai nearly slips out of his hand completely. “Uncle?”

Fugaku is staring at him, expressionless. He glances down at the kunai. “Expecting trouble?” he asks, motioning down towards the weapon.

“Uh.” Shisui looks down at the kunai, then back up at Fugaku. “No, I, uh.” He shakes himself, places the kunai on the side table next to the door before giving Fugaku an abashed smile. “Can’t ever be too careful, you know.”

“No,” Fugaku agrees, tilting his head to the side as he considers Shisui. “I suppose you can’t be.”

The reason goes left unsaid, but Shisui feels the unspoken words dig under his skin, nonetheless, feels them wrap around his organs. _Because of the Mangekyou._

Fugaku keeps staring at him. Or not at _him_ , really — at his _eyes_.

A heavy discomfort settles over his shoulders, squeezes at his throat. “Yeah, well.” He plasters a grin on his face and tries for a joke. “It’s not easy being such a hot commodity.”

Fugaku doesn’t laugh. In fact, his expression sobers even further. “My offer still stands, you know.” 

The words jab sharply at his chest, make his lungs swell painfully. His smile falters. “I know.”

“The boys would be thrilled,” Fugaku continues. “And Mikoto already thinks of you as her own son.”

Shisui takes a breath. He has to make an effort to keep his voice steady. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m safe enough here.”

“You’d be safer living with us,” Fugaku insists. He motions down towards the left, where Shisui had placed the kunai down. “You’d be well protected. Wouldn’t have to worry about being attacked in the middle of the night.”

Shisui has to mask the sudden hitch in his breathing. _No, I still would,_ he thinks. _And then you all would have to worry, too._

Turning Fugaku down should be easier by now, he thinks. But it hurts just as badly as it did the first time he had to do it. Because _gods_ , does he want to say yes. He wants nothing more than to shove his belongings into shitty fucking boxes and haul them all over to his uncle’s house, to sell this damn apartment and pretend it never fucking existed. He hates living alone, hates waking up and going to sleep every day by himself.

But he has to, now. He can’t bear putting anyone else’s life at risk for such selfish reasons.

Shisui recomposes himself, shakes his head as he gives Fugaku an apologetic smile. “I appreciate the offer, Uncle. But I’m okay here. Really.”

A fleeting look of displeasure passes over Fugaku’s face. “If you insist,” he says. “But you always have a place at our house if you change your mind.”

 _I can’t ever change my mind._ “Thank you, sir.”

Shisui reaches to shut the door, then, is about to bid his uncle goodnight and return back to the scrolls. But Fugaku suddenly diverts his gaze over Shisui’s shoulder, juts his chin out. “Mind if I come in?”

He’s not sure why the request catches him off guard — of course Fugaku didn’t stop by at such an odd hour to discuss Shisui’s living arrangements. It’s a ludicrous assumption for him to have made and, in any other circumstance, he probably would’ve been thoroughly embarrassed to have jumped to such a bad conclusion. But he pauses, nonetheless, his mind struggling to make sense of what Fugaku is asking because it’s almost two in the morning and, now that he really thinks about it, why _is_ his uncle here?

Fugaku evidently senses his hesitation. “I know it’s late,” he admits, apologetic, “but I need to discuss a few things with you.”

Shisui wipes at the corners of his eyes, tries to figure out what, exactly, is going on. But the pieces aren’t fitting together in his head, aren’t making any sense.

_Why are you here?_

“Uh, yeah.” He steps to the side, gives Fugaku room to enter. “Yeah, of course you can come in.”

Shisui’s apartment is barely big enough for one person; it’s practically claustrophobic with two inside. The disdain is clear on Fugaku’s face as he glances around the cramped space, picking has way around the scrolls Shisui left strewn on the floor. Shisui watches him carefully, the gears cranking away in his brain. _Why are you here?_

“What’s all this for?” Fugaku asks, motioning down towards the scrolls.

It’s better if he keeps his answers vague — he isn’t sure how much Itachi told Fugaku about what happened in the Reikai. “Just doing some research.”

Fugaku walks over to the scroll still lying open on the table, leans down to examine it. “ _Susanoo_ ,” he reads aloud. He glances over at Shisui, then, seeming almost surprised. “You’re looking into the greater deities?”

Shisui nods immediately. “Yes, sir.”

Fugaku looks back down, considering the scroll. What he says next is sudden, unexpected. And it makes Shisui’s veins flood with ice.

“I remember when you got your Mangekyou.” Fugaku nudges the edge of the paper with a finger. “The clan was thrilled that someone finally awakened it.”

_The clan was thrilled._

Shisui feels something start to unravel in his mind, and an aborted laugh escapes from his mouth. “Yeah, uh.” He swallows hard. _Don’t think about it,_ he tells himself. _Just don’t think about it._

But the memories are already bubbling to the surface, flashing across his eyes. He takes a breath, tries to steady himself despite the fact that it feels like his heart is about to burst right out of his chest.

 _Stop thinking about it,_ he thinks desperately. _Breathe._

 _The clan was thrilled._

His hands start to shake, and he clenches them into tight fists. Because the clan _was_ thrilled — every single member. He still remembers how it felt walking down the streets of the compound those first few weeks, remembers the endless faces smiling down at him, the barrage of congratulations and praise.

_“Heard you got the Mangekyou! Attaboy!”_

_“If only your parents were here to see you, Shisui — they’d be so proud.”_

_“Shisui, dear, you’re practically all grown up now! Gods, the Mangekyou? I can’t even fathom it. You’re a very lucky child.”_

_“You’re going to be calling down gods now, Shisui! Gods! Do you know what an honor that is?”_

Suou had kept the lamps surrounding the shrine lit for days on end, encouraging people to stop in and thank the gods for bestowing such a miraculous blessing upon the clan. _“Blessed be the gods! Shisui Uchiha has awakened the Mangekyou!”_

He’d walked around like a ghost for months. Numb. Unfeeling. _I don’t want these eyes,_ he’d wanted to say. _Don’t you understand? My friend is dead because of me. I let him die._ He couldn’t sleep without hearing his screams, wound up back in that fucking forest more times than he could count in his dreams. He’d had to stop himself from yelling at them all, from falling apart in the middle of the compound and clawing his eyeballs right out of his skull. _Do you know what the Mangekyou costs? Do you know what you have to give up in order to walk with the gods?_

He didn’t activate the Mangekyou for almost a year. Couldn’t, really. Or wouldn’t, he supposes. Most thought it was the result of inexperience, of trepidation. The clan had been without a Mangekyou user for decades by the time he awakened his — there was no one there to guide him, no one there to offer him advice. It would take time for him to figure it out, to get used to the sheer power of it. Surely that was his only obstacle.

But it wasn’t, of course. Not even close.

He realizes Fugaku is looking at him. “You were only seven, if I recall,” he says, his voice low. “The youngest to awaken it in recorded history.”

Shisui feels his eyes start to burn. Seven. He had really only been seven, hadn’t he? He tries to imagine Sasuke awakening the Mangekyou, tries to imagine him dealing with the anguish caused by these cursed eyes.

When he finally finds his voice, it comes out as only a whisper. “I was.”

“And you’re what, now? Sixteen?” Fugaku shakes his head and laughs, a short, ironic puff of air. “Gods, it feels like it happened only yesterday, doesn’t it?”

Shisui digs his nails deep into his sweating palms. A ghost’s screams rattle in his subconscious, threatening to break free. _It doesn’t feel like yesterday,_ he thinks. _It feels like a fucking eternity._

Fugaku lifts up the scroll, worrying the paper between his fingers. The sound nearly makes Shisui cringe. “Have you ever called down a greater deity?” he inquires. “Someone like Susanoo?”

“Um.” Shisui takes a deep breath, rolls his shoulders back. _Pull yourself together._ “No, I, uh, I haven’t.”

Fugaku glances up at him. “Were you thinking about trying?”

Frost cuts at his lungs. “No,” he says quickly — too quickly, in hindsight. “I was just, uh,” he swallows, “I was just reading.”

Fugaku nods, turns his attention back to the scroll. “That’s still good,” he remarks. “The information will be useful when you eventually decide to call one.”

 _When_ he decides. Not if.

Shisui’s stomach flips at the mere prospect. Fugaku blurs in front of him, and he has to brace a hand on the table behind him before he falls over completely.

_Why are you here?_

He clears his throat. “I mean no disrespect, Uncle.” Fugaku looks up at him. “But it’s very late.” _And I would like you to get the hell out of my apartment, now._ “What did you want to discuss?”

“Ah, yes.” Fugaku places the scroll back on the table, turns to face him. “I wanted to ask you about Itachi.”

 _...Itachi?_ The mention of his cousin’s name pierces clear through the fog clouding his mind. He straightens, his nerves bristling for an entirely different reason, now. “Did something happen?”

“I think you would know better than me.” Fugaku crosses his arms. “You gave him something earlier today. What was it?”

 _I gave..._ Shisui feels his brow furrow, realizes he’s practically gaping at Fugaku. “I’m sorry?”

“He came home from his mission and you gave him something. I want to know what it was.”

Shisui understands the words coming out of Fugaku’s mouth — he does. But for some reason his brain isn’t processing them, isn’t comprehending the sudden shift in conversation at all.

“I don’t —” Realization dawns on him, and he snaps his mouth shut with a sharp _click_.

_Fucking hell._

It all makes sense now. The late night visit. Mentioning his Mangekyou. His uncle isn’t here just to talk; he’s here for information.

Shisui holds himself very, very still. He’s off balance now, which is undoubtedly what Fugaku had been aiming for — he doesn’t have much time to regain his footing, is going to need to think fast if he doesn’t want to drown under Fugaku’s interrogation. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Uncle.”

Fugaku raises an eyebrow, obviously unimpressed by his attempted lie. “You told Mikoto you gave him medicine.”

A memory of Mikoto’s worried expression flashes across his eyes. _Fuck._ He did tell her that, didn’t he?

Shisui purses his lips, pretends to think about it. _I need to buy some time._ “I’m not really sure — _oh_!” he says, as if just remembering. “Actually, I think I did. When he got back from his mission? Yeah, yeah.” He smiles at Fugaku. _Play it cool._ “He had a headache, so I grabbed him a vial from Eri’s shop.”

“Eri’s shop?” Fugaku repeats.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re positive?”

He chews at his lip, taking a moment to consider his uncle’s question. “Pretty positive, yeah.”

“That’s interesting,” Fugaku says, in a way that suggests it really isn’t interesting at all. “Because I spoke to Eri earlier, and she says she hasn’t seen you.”

Shisui doesn’t react. _Shit._ “That’s odd,” he admits.

“I thought so as well.” Fugaku gives him a terribly dry smile. “So, in an effort not to drag this out any longer, I’m going to ask you one more time.” The look Fugaku turns on him is absolutely chilling, and Shisui has to force himself not to flinch as his uncle takes a few steps towards him. “What did you give my son?”

A thousand lies battle at the tip his tongue. But he knows he’s not going to be able to fool his uncle with any of them. Fugaku already knows too much, will be able to figure it out himself eventually.

And so he settles on the truth.

“I don’t know what it’s called,” he admits. “I got it from Suou.”

Fugaku’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. “What did it look like?”

“Clear.”

“How much did you give him?”

“Not a lot.” Shisui holds up a hand, leaving an inch of empty space between his thumb and index finger to try and convey the amount. “Suou only ever gives me a small vial of it.”

“And what does it do, exactly?”

“It, uh.” Shisui motions towards his face, grasps for the words. “It sort of clears out the residual energy leftover from the gods? After you channel them?”

Fugaku is staring at him, silent, and Shisui realizes his uncle probably has no idea what he’s talking about. _Because he’s never called down gods before._

He launches into an explanation before he can think better of it. “When you call down a god, you channel its power into your body and then release it out through your Sharingan, right?”

Fugaku doesn’t respond. Which is fine, really, because Shisui doesn’t exactly expect him to. He continues. “But all of the energy doesn’t always come out — sometimes a bit gets left behind. So, like, you know the headaches Itachi gets? After calling down a god? It’s because his Sharingan isn’t funneling all of the deity’s energy out of his body.”

_Because a basic Sharingan isn’t meant to channel the gods._

He pushes the thought aside stubbornly, knows that this isn’t the time to get into it. “If only a little is leftover, it usually goes away by itself. But if there’s too much, it can be corrosive, can really damage your eyes. So the medicine sort of...dissolves it?” Shisui makes a face. “I don’t know how it works, exactly. I just use it sometimes. It helps with the symptoms, either way.”

Fugaku seems to contemplate that. “Is it addictive?”

He shakes his head immediately. “No.”

“How frequently can Itachi take it?”

Shisui tries not to flinch at the question. _This is what I was afraid of._ “He really shouldn’t —” he pauses, takes a breath. “It’s not good to use too often, Uncle.”

Fugaku nods, acts as if he understands. _But you don’t,_ Shisui wants to say. _You don’t understand how dangerous it is to call down gods._ “How easy would it be for him to get more of it?”

Shisui’s lungs collapse, and he nearly chokes on the breath still in his throat. _Don’t do it,_ he thinks. _Don’t use this to push him even further._

“It doesn’t have a long shelf life,” Shisui says, trying to keep the panic and anger from showing too clearly in his voice. “And Suou only ever makes it if I request it.” _One of the few good things to come from awakening the Mangekyou._ “Itachi shouldn’t be able to get more by himself.”

The final threat lies unspoken on his tongue. _So don’t even try, Uncle._

Shisui waits for Fugaku to scowl, to make his dissatisfaction with Shisui’s answer known. But something strange must happen to his eyes, then, because he swears he actually sees Fugaku relax at his words. “Good.” he breathes, nodding to himself. “That’s good.”

 _Good?_ Shisui blinks at his uncle, because that’s hardly the response he’d expected. He’s about to ask what Fugaku means by it, why he suddenly thinks it’s _good_ that Itachi doesn’t have access to something that would allow him to push his Sharingan even further, but Fugaku beats him to it with another question.

“Why did you request the medicine?”

Shisui can’t stop himself from frowning at the abrupt shift in conversation. _Damn it, Uncle. Why does everything have to be a fucking interrogation?_ “What?”

“You said Suou only ever makes the medicine if you request it,” Fugaku explains. “Meaning you had to ask him for it prior to Itachi’s return. So why did you request it?”

Shisui pauses, feels himself flush. He looks down at the floor and takes a breath. He’s been honest so far. Why should he lie about this? “It takes a few days to make, so I always ask for a vial before Itachi comes back from a mission,” he confesses. “Just in case he needs it.”

Silence falls on them. It wraps snugly against Shisui’s limbs, tries to push its way into his body through his skin.

He jumps when a hand suddenly lands on his shoulder.

Shisui looks up, sees his uncle staring at him. Fugaku’s expression isn’t affectionate, by any means, but Shisui thinks he sees a hint of warmth there, a hint of kindness. “Thank you,” he says, giving Shisui’s shoulder a light squeeze. “I’m glad he has you looking out for him.”

The sentiment transports him straight back to his uncle’s kitchen. He sees Mikoto standing in front of him, a small smile on her face. _Thank you for taking care of him._

His skin flares hot under Fugaku’s touch.

“Of course,” he says, echoing his own words. They still sound terribly hollow.

_I just wish I could do so much fucking more._


	4. The Nightmares Never Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: chapter contains graphic content.

**Sasuke**

Sasuke doesn’t sleep for most of the night. He tries to — he really does. He squeezes his eyes shut and tucks his covers up around his chin, calms his mind and focuses on his breathing while he thinks of _nothing, nothing, nothing._ It almost works — almost. He feels himself start to fall asleep a few times, feels his body relax as he slowly, slowly drifts off. And everything is peaceful...

...until the dreams come.

They’re a terrible cacophony of visions that scorch across his mind, images of bloodshot eyes and angry gods that sear into the backs of his eyelids. His mind hangs suspended in their grasp; they claw at him, tear his flesh apart and he can’t get out, can’t escape from them and he’s trapped, trapped, _trapped_ —

But then his body sucks in a large gulp of air and his limbs jerk hard underneath his covers and suddenly he’s back in his room, staring wide-eyed at his ceiling. Awake. Safe.

It happens three times. And then Sasuke decides to stop trying to go to sleep. He stares at the far wall of his room instead, trying not to dwell on the terrible thoughts his mind has conjured. Because he knows that the dreams are stupid, that they don’t even make sense anyway since Shisui said gods don’t look like people. But he imagines them as people nonetheless, imagines them furiously glaring down at him from the Reikai, using their teeth and tongues to shout and curse him and his family. He imagines them reaching into Itachi’s body with their hands, twisting at his organs until his insides are a bloody mess and his bones are reduced to dust and _they’re going to kill him, the gods are going to kill my brother because I was stupid and didn’t follow the rules and they’re going to break him and make him suffer and — and —_

Sasuke’s eyes start to sting. He takes a shaky breath, pulls the covers tighter around himself. The wall blurs in front of him as his tears begin to well.

“I’m sorry,” Sasuke whispers, knowing very well that the gods can’t hear him from here but wanting to try anyway. “I didn’t mean to disobey you. It was a mistake, and I swear that I’ll never, ever, _ever_ do it again. Just please stop hurting my brother.” A hot tear rolls down his face, and a sob escapes from between his lips. “If you need to punish someone,” he says, his voice trembling, “you should punish me instead. It was my fault, and I’m the one who should get in trouble. Itachi didn’t —”

His door suddenly creaks open, and Sasuke’s voice catches in his throat.

Every inch of his body is frozen as the door shuts, his skin prickling. The tears are still hot against his cheeks and his nose is stuffy from getting upset — he can’t breathe through the snot, and he desperately wants to sniff to clear it out. But then Itachi will hear, will know he’s been lying here crying like a baby. So he opens his mouth instead, takes in tiny gasps of air as he tries to keep his body perfectly still.

Itachi is as weightless as a shadow when he moves, his footsteps making no noise as he coasts across the floorboards. Sasuke finds the lack of sound mildly comforting, all things considered. Compared to his brother’s pain-fueled, heavy stride earlier, this is at least something _normal_ , something that maybe proves his brother is feeling a bit better.

But then the sound of his brother’s vomit landing in the kitchen sink echos through his skull. He pictures the gods twisting his brother’s intestines, squeezing at his stomach until they forced the bile and acid lying there up his throat.

The thought makes him curl in on himself.

_The gods didn’t forgive me. The gods didn’t forgive me, and they’re still punishing Itachi._

Sasuke’s bed frame creaks as Itachi sits on the floor and leans his back against it. Sasuke doesn’t move under his covers, barely even breathes. The tear trails have started to cool against his skin.

A few minutes pass. Sasuke starts to relax, starts to think that maybe his brother doesn’t even know he’s awake. But then a hand knocks gently against the bottom of his exposed foot.

“I know you’re not asleep, Sasuke,” Itachi informs him.

Sasuke jumps despite himself, wrenching the body part under the covers. He pulls his sheets up and over his head.

“Yes, I am,” he quietly insists.

“Yeah?” His bed frame creaks as Itachi shifts against it. “Weird that you’re talking to me, then.”

“No, it’s not,” he mumbles, the back of his neck warming.

“No?”

The sheets shift around him as he shakes his head resolutely. “I’m talking in my sleep.”

Itachi coughs, and a painful jolt of apprehension shoots through Sasuke’s veins. _The gods are still punishing him._

“Oh,” Itachi says, acting as if he might actually consider believing Sasuke’s blatant lie. “Makes sense.”

Sasuke hugs his arms tightly around his body. His brother doesn’t _sound_ sick, and Sasuke desperately wants to believe that means he isn’t. _But he didn’t seem sick when we went to the shrine, either,_ Sasuke reminds himself. _And then he threw up at dinner anyway._

Sasuke doesn’t answer Itachi, still ruminating on his thoughts. Because his brother is clearly still unwell, which means he’s not getting better, which means the gods aren’t accepting Sasuke’s apology. But Sasuke isn’t sure what else he can possibly do to earn the gods’ forgiveness — he’s prayed, promised them that he’ll never break another one of their laws ever again. He isn’t sure what else they want from him, what else he can offer.

His nose starts to run, and he swipes at it with the back of his hand, determined not to get upset while Itachi is only a few feet away. But it’s hard — oh so _very_ hard — because he doesn’t know how to make this better; he doesn’t know how to make any of this better.

 _I have to tell him,_ Sasuke realizes, and it's such a horrifying prospect that he isn’t even entirely convinced he can do it. There is no doubt that his brother will be angry, that he might even hate Sasuke for what he’s done. But maybe he’ll know how to fix it, will know what Sasuke has to do in order to properly earn the gods’ forgiveness. He has to tell Itachi — he _has_ to, because the only alternative is letting his brother’s condition get worse and worse and worse until the gods’ wrath finally kills him.

Sasuke peels his chapped lips apart, tries to force the words up and out of his constricted throat.

Nothing comes out.

He closes his mouth, bites back a terrified sob. _But I need to tell him. The sooner he knows, the sooner he can fix it._ He loosens his jaw, opens his mouth again. 

“I’m sorry about today,” Itachi says.

Sasuke’s heart drops and he swallows hard. Itachi clearly doesn’t understand the reality of the situation if he’s apologizing to Sasuke, doesn’t have any idea that his own little brother is to blame for the misfortune that’s been plaguing him.

 _I just need to say it,_ he tells himself. _I just need to get it over with and say it._

He mumbles the words under his breath — any louder, and he thinks his body will crumble entirely.

His bed frame creaks. “What?” Itachi asks. “I didn’t hear you.”

 _Don’t make me say it again,_ he begs. _Please don’t make me say it again._

“Sasuke?”

He opens his mouth, but the only thing that comes out is a terrible, terrible whimper. His eyes start to water again.

“Are you crying?” Itachi asks, but it’s obvious at this point that Sasuke is and Itachi doesn’t bother waiting for him to either confirm or deny the fact. Sasuke hears his brother stand up, and he wraps the covers tighter around his head in a lame attempt to muffle his hiccuped sobs.

The mattress dips beneath him a moment later as Itachi settles himself on the edge of his bed. His brother tugs lightly on the sheet, trying to pull it back, and Sasuke actually lets him. But he turns and digs his face hard into his pillow before Itachi can get a proper look at him.

“Hey.” Itachi’s voice is gentle, kind, but the sound only drills Sasuke’s shame further into his bones. Because Uchiha don’t act like this — _Itachi_ doesn’t act like this.

He cries harder.

A pair of fingers tap lightly against the side of his head. “Look at me.”

 _Look at me._ Sasuke knows the command is directed at him this time, but he doesn’t turn towards his brother. He can’t, because his eyes are puffy and his nose is running and Itachi must already think he’s _weak, weak, weak_ and this isn’t at all how he wants his brother to find out that everything is his fault.

He chokes back a sob and shakes his head. Itachi sighs.

“You can ask what happened, if you want,” Itachi offers. “I can try and explain.”

Sasuke shakes his head again, sniffing loudly. “I already know what happened,” he mumbles.

The fingers prod at his head again. “I still can’t hear you.”

Sasuke shifts his head so his mouth is hovering in the empty space between his pillow and his bed. “I already know what happened,” he repeats, louder this time, the frustration at his own cowardice starting to build underneath his skin. 

Itachi doesn’t answer.

Sasuke waits a few seconds, focusing on taking deep, even breaths like he’s been taught to do when he gets upset. And still, Itachi says nothing. A deep apprehension crawls up Sasuke’s spine as he begins to calm down, and so he risks peeking an eye out, the newfound desperation at gauging his brother’s reaction overriding the embarrassment he feels at the state he’s in. 

His brother is staring at him, his face perfectly blank.

“You do?” Itachi eventually asks.

Sasuke manages to nod, the terror at what he’s about to do siphoning across his muscles.

“Okay.” His brother says the word carefully, almost tiptoeing around the edges of it. “What do you think happened?”

“I don’t _think_ it happened,” Sasuke mutters, rolling to his back. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hands, tries to dry the tears. He doesn’t want to be crying when he says this. “I know.”

Itachi looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t, keeping his gaze trained on Sasuke instead. “Fine,” he relents. “What do you _know_ happened?”

Sasuke takes a deep breath. _This is it,_ he thinks. _This is the moment before Itachi hates me forever._

But he has to say it.

The truth comes out slowly, in pieces.

“You’re hurt,” Sasuke begins.

Itachi doesn’t hesitate to tell the lie he’s been repeating all night. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Sasuke insists. “You’re hurt, and —”

The words catch on his tongue, stick to the roof of his mouth. Sasuke takes a deep breath to rattle them loose. Because he needs to do this.

_Just say it._

Sasuke can’t look at his brother when he utters the words, though, doesn’t want to see the anger that comes over his face. So he stares at the corner of his blanket instead. And then he exhales the awful, ugly truth in all its atrociousness with one, single breath.

“You’re hurt and it’s my fault.”

Everything is quiet, the calm before the storm. Sasuke waits — waits for the questions, for the anger, for Itachi to storm out of his room and never speak to him again. And he’ll deserve all of it.

 _Maybe this is how the gods are going to punish me,_ he thinks numbly. _They’ll make Itachi hate me._

In all honesty, he can’t think of anything worse.

The silence drags on, but Sasuke still can’t bring himself to look at his brother. And so he sits there, bracing for the worst.

And then Itachi laughs.

It’s a short, surprised sound. It catches Sasuke so off guard that he feels himself jump, the hair along his arms standing on end. This evidently only fuels Itachi’s amusement, though, because he hears another huffed laugh leave his brother’s mouth.

Sasuke’s still staring resolutely at his blanket, because this isn’t the reaction he’s expecting and he’s not exactly sure how to respond to it.

 _Maybe he doesn’t understand what I’m trying to say?_ Sasuke wonders, and he thinks that must be it, because Itachi certainly shouldn’t be _laughing_ while Sasuke is trying to explain that he’s the reason he’s hurt.

So Sasuke tries again. “It’s my fault you got hurt,” he says, launching the words straight out of his mouth before he can think better of it. “I went to the shrine by myself and now the gods are punishing us.”

Itachi’s laughing at him before he even finishes, and this time it’s an actual, honest to gods laugh. The noise is shockingly loud in the silence of their house, and his brother immediately makes an effort to muffle it, the mattress shifting beneath them both as Itachi moves to try and contain himself. But Sasuke can still hear the little gasps of breath leaving his brother’s mouth, the staccato exhales. 

A frown is pulling at his lips when Sasuke finally looks over at Itachi, because he doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s heard that sound come out of his brother. Itachi chuckles occasionally, smiles or snorts if he finds something particularly amusing. But for him to actually _laugh_?

Itachi is leaning over, his head buried in his hands and his shoulders shaking.

Sasuke stares at him, but Itachi doesn’t stop laughing. And that’s when he starts to think that the gods must have made his brother lose his mind.

_Or maybe he just doesn’t believe me?_

“I’m being serious,” he tells Itachi.

His brother’s shoulders shake harder.

“Really,” Sasuke insists, because at this point he’s less concerned about revealing the full extent of his insolence and more concerned about making sense of his brother’s odd reaction to it. “I broke a clan law.”

“You broke —” Itachi wipes at his face, little huffs of air still falling from his mouth. The reaction isn’t doing much to assure Sasuke that nothing is wrong; if anything, seeing Itachi act so relaxed, so _uncontrolled_ , is probably the most alarming thing that’s happened all day.

And yet, Sasuke’s nerves start to settle a bit.

“You’re...not mad?” he asks skeptically.

Itachi peers at Sasuke with a small smile, cradling his chin in his hand. “I’m not mad, Sasuke,” Itachi assures him. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I’m not allowed to go into the shrine alone and —”

“The gods don’t care if you go into the shrine by yourself,” Itachi interrupts. “That’s not why we have the law.”

 _The gods don’t care if you go into the shrine by yourself._ Sasuke takes a shaky breath, the air heavy in his lungs. It sounds far too good to be true.

“No?” he asks.

“No,” Itachi confirms, the smile still in place on his face. “Nothing that’s happening is your fault.”

The relief that courses through him is almost painful. He sniffs hard, wipes at the remnants of tears still on his lashes. “You’re sure?” Because he wants to be absolutely, completely positive.

Itachi rolls his eyes this time. He reaches out, flicks Sasuke on the forehead. “ _Yes_ , Sasuke. I’m sure.”

Sasuke flinches back. “Don’t do that,” he whines, pouting as he rubs petulantly at his skin. But then he feels himself start to smile.

_I didn’t do anything wrong._

He takes Itachi’s words and uses them to cleanse the horrid thoughts still sitting stagnant in his brain, uses them to chase away the terrifying images of the gods torturing his brother. _Because it isn’t my fault — it isn’t my fault._

_But if it isn’t my fault, then what’s wrong with Itachi?_

The smile falls from his face.

Sasuke looks up at his brother, wide-eyed as ice floods his veins. Because something is still wrong. And it’s not his fault.

“Are you sick?” Sasuke asks in a rush, the words tumbling out before he can stop them.

Itachi blinks, his lips flattening into a thin, straight line. And then he sighs.

“No,” he says. “I’m not.”

 _Liar._ “Then why —”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Sasuke. I’m fine.” But his brother’s eyes are flat when he says it, the mirth from earlier gone completely. 

Sasuke bites at the inside of his cheek, an argument brewing behind his teeth. Then he nods. “Okay,” he lies. 

Sasuke has a feeling that Itachi doesn’t actually believe him, but his brother doesn’t argue the point. He rubs the pads of his fingers idly along the edge of Sasuke’s blanket instead, looks down at the floor.

“Why did you go to the shrine by yourself?” Itachi suddenly asks.

An abrupt surge of panic swells in Sasuke’s throat at the question. “I thought you said —”

“You’re not in trouble,” Itachi promises, cutting Sasuke off before he can start spiraling again. His brother still doesn’t look at him. “I’m just curious.”

Sasuke presses his lips together hard. “Do you _promise_ not to tell?”

Itachi glances up at him. He nods.

Sasuke opens his mouth, considering, then shuts it with a soft _snap_ and shakes his head.

A smile toys at the corners of Itachi’s mouth. “Come on.” He nudges Sasuke’s leg. “Why’d you go?”

Sasuke shakes his head again. “It’s stupid,” he insists.

“That’s okay. You can tell me.”

Sasuke turns his gaze back down to the sheets. His face burns as he lines the words up on his tongue in neat little rows.

“I went to pray for you,” he admits. “While you were on your mission.” _That you got hurt on, anyway._

Sasuke waits for his brother to laugh at him again, because that’s apparently something Itachi does now. But his words are only met with silence.

He peeks up at Itachi, sees that his brother is staring at him once more. His expression is entirely unreadable. Sasuke shifts on the mattress, trying to dispel his nerves.

Itachi moves, then, lifting himself up and off Sasuke’s bed. The depression his body leaves behind in the mattress is warm, a sharp contrast to the panicked chill that runs down Sasuke’s body.

_He promised._

Sasuke reaches out towards his brother, convinced that Itachi is on his way to tell Mother and Father what he did. “You said you wouldn’t —”

“Want to go to the roof?” Itachi abruptly asks, his gaze turning to the window beside Sasuke’s bed. “The sun is going to rise soon.”

Sasuke freezes, his hand still outstretched.

He places his arm back down carefully, struggles to find his voice. “But last time —” Sasuke stops and swallows. He tries again. “But Father said we aren’t allowed —”

“Father went out a few hours ago. He won’t know.” His brother waves a hand at him, then, urging Sasuke out of bed. “Come on, we’ll miss it if you don’t hurry.”

**Itachi**

Sasuke still looks mildly unconvinced, but he slips out of his bed nonetheless, his feet landing with a soft _thud_ on the floor. He makes his way over to Itachi slowly, wipes at his eye with the back of his hand. The floorboards _creak_ with every step he takes, and the sound makes the guilt boiling in Itachi’s chest throb.

_“I went to pray for you.”_

He fights the urge to rub at his throat, the air in his bother’s room starting to suffocate him. The walls are pressing in, inching closer and closer and closer, and an aching urge to flee bubbles along the length of his bones.

_Breathe. Just breathe._

The agitation has been steaming under his skin since he went to his room for the night, sizzling as he lied in bed staring restlessly at the shadows walking across his ceiling. He’d kept himself still for as long as he could stand, trying not to think, not to focus.

But he couldn’t stop his thoughts. Not completely.

_I-ta-chi._

Hours passed as he struggled to ground himself, keeping his breathing steady as he forced himself to concentrate on the physical aspects of the world around him. The feeling of his sheets against his skin, the sound of the wind scraping gently against his window, the way the air pressed against the inside of his lungs.

Itachi eventually became acutely aware of Sasuke’s chakra signature pulsing in his room down the hall, a distressed energy that so palpably mirrored his own. He hadn’t seen his brother after his meeting with Father, but Itachi hardly had to lay eyes on Sasuke to know that his despair was directly caused by everything that had happened, by everything he’d seen. And so Itachi got up, thinking that if he wasn’t going to sleep anyway, he might as well go try and fix the one thing he actually could.

In hindsight, it might’ve been wiser to just stay in bed. He has a sinking feeling that, while he may have assuaged Sasuke of his own, personal guilt, he only ended up making his brother feel worse about the entire situation.

_“Are you sick?”_

Itachi takes another breath and turns to the window, undoes the lock with a soft _click_ as he fights to keep his anxieties at bay.

_The roof. I’ll be able to think more clearly on the roof._

The window slides back easily. Itachi turns to help his brother up to it, but Sasuke darts to the side, sidestepping him completely.

“I can do it,” his brother insists.

Itachi raises an eyebrow. “If you say so,” he says, taking a step back.

He watches in mild amusement as Sasuke places his hands against the ledge and hoists himself up with a grunt. Sasuke balances on the sill for a moment, shaky as he carefully inches his body over the edge. His fingers grip tightly at the ledge as he slowly lowers his legs to the ground, his arms trembling with the effort of it. He hangs for a moment, suspended.

And then he lets go.

It’s not a far drop, but Sasuke still lands on the grass with a loud _thump_ and a soft, drawn out, _ow_.

Itachi peers out of the window — his brother is flat on his ass, cradling his foot. “You okay?”

When Sasuke looks up at him, his lower lip is jut out in a small pout. “Yeah,” his brother mumbles. Sasuke pushes himself to his feet, and Itachi can just make out the wince that passes over his face.

Itachi frowns. “Are you sure?” he asks skeptically. “If you’re hurt, it might be better if we —”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Sasuke grouses, and Itachi can’t help but wonder if he sounds as petulant when he says it.

The thought is pushed to the back of his mind, however, when his brother looks up at him, a mischievous grin beginning to spread over his face. “Hurry up, Itachi!” His brother starts trotting towards the back of their house. “We’re gonna miss it!”

“Hey, wait for me before you —” But Sasuke is already gone.

Itachi rolls his eyes; he should know better than to think that his brother will wait even a second for _anything_.

He vaults himself over the windowsill easily, landing softly on the grass and following Sasuke at a slow jog. When he reaches the backyard, he’s not at all surprised to find Sasuke already hanging off the lowest branch of the cherry tree planted at the corner of their house. His brother’s legs are dangling, kicking freely in the open air as he tries in vain to hoist his body up onto the limb. Itachi keeps his distance and watches, crossing his arms and biting back a smile.

He lets his brother struggle for a few seconds, and then he asks. “Need help?”

Sasuke shakes his head, starts fighting harder against the gravity dragging him down. “No,” he says, his voice strained. “I can do it.”

He can’t, in fact, and eventually Sasuke comes to terms with that disappointing reality. Sasuke stills all at once, the full weight of his body slumping against the branch. Itachi can hear his defeated sigh from across the lawn.

“I need help,” Sasuke admits.

Itachi complies with the request immediately, the grass soft between his toes as he walks over to his brother. He places his hands under Sasuke’s feet and _lifts_ , swinging his body up and onto the branch.

Sasuke hugs the limb. “Thank you,” he mumbles, sitting up and immediately reaching for the next one. The rest of the climb is easy — Sasuke has done it plenty of times before, and he’s never once had a problem with it. But Itachi watches him carefully nonetheless, keeps his eyes trained on every handhold his brother takes. Just in case.

When Sasuke gets closer to the top, Itachi starts to follow him up the tree, grabbing at a branch and hoisting himself onto it effortlessly. He doesn’t actually need to use it to get to the roof; he could jump, probably, or even walk up the side of the house. But climbing the cherry tree with Sasuke is practically tradition, at this point, and Itachi isn’t going to break it just because his skillset allows him to. So he climbs, the branches bending under the weight of his body and the leaves swaying against each other in quiet protest.

He reaches the roof a few seconds after Sasuke. His brother is already leaning back, his eyes trained on the sky. Itachi walks over to him quietly, settles himself down beside him without a word. And then they lie there in silence, watching the world around them slowly brighten.

The first time Itachi went up to the roof, he was eight. He did it on a whim one night when he couldn’t sleep, his room suffocating him and his eyes blurry from being pulled from the Reikai.

_“I can’t see. Shisui, I can’t see.”_

He hadn’t been able to shake the terror that had seeped into his pores, the absolute panic that had shocked every nerve in his body when he realized he was _blind, blind, blind_. The walls of his room were pressing in on him, and he wanted to get out; he _needed_ to get out.

Why he thought the roof was a good place to go, he still isn’t entirely sure. But there was something about the idea of sitting on top of his house, of being _above_ everything, that had momentarily settled the agitation screaming through his body. And so he crawled out his window, walked around to the cherry blossom tree planted by the corner of their house. And then he climbed.

It had hardly been a nice night. Clouds covered the sky, and a thick haze had settled over the entire compound. He could barely see a foot in front of him, let alone look out at the place he called home. So he tried to meditate; he closed his eyes, quieted his mind. He sat there for hours like that, breathing in the muggy air, focusing on the physicality of his body.

And, surprisingly, he actually felt a bit better afterwards.

Bringing Sasuke up to the roof had been a whim as well. He’d come home from a mission late one night to find his brother sobbing quietly in his room, Mother and Father speaking to each other in stern voices behind the closed office door. Itachi wasn’t exactly sure what had happened; he _still_ doesn’t know exactly what happened. All he knows is that he went into Sasuke’s room and had seen a large red splotch against the side of his brother’s tear-stricken face.

So Itachi brought him to the roof.

They stayed up there all night, Sasuke’s sobs eventually quieting as he fell asleep against Itachi’s side. The sky brightened, the sun rose. And then Itachi, though he didn’t entirely intend to, fell asleep as well.

Itachi doesn’t mean to fall asleep this time, either. But it doubtlessly happens, because when he closes his eyes, the world around him is just beginning to stir, waking slowly, slowly, slowly. And then the next thing he’s aware of is an overwhelming darkness and the soft echo of a voice clambering through his skull.

“...Ita...i...Sas...”

“...achi...Sasuke?”

“Where in the gods’ names...”

“Itachi? Sasuke?”

“Gods be good, are you boys on the roof?”

“Itachi? Itachi!”

_I-ta-chi._

Itachi’s eyes snap open as something forcefully presses against his shoulder, shaking it insistently. Sasuke’s wide-eyed face is hovering above him.

“Mother’s mad,” his brother whispers. “Mother’s really, really mad.”

“Itachi!” their mother calls again. Sasuke’s eyes manage to widen even further.

 _Shit._ Itachi groans. He rubs a hand forlornly over his face as he sits up, squinting against the blinding sunlight.

“I swear young man, if you and your brother don’t get down here this instant —”

Itachi hefts himself to his feet. “C’mere,” he mumbles. He reaches towards Sasuke, his mind struggling to wake up, and doesn’t wait for an answer before he scoops his brother into his arms.

“Wait, wait, no! I can get down by myself —”

Itachi jumps off the roof, landing in a silent crouch on the grass.

When he looks up, it’s to see Mother standing in front of them, her arms crossed and her slippered foot spraying dew as it taps against the grass. She frowns down at Itachi. “Well, I was going to ask if you were feeling better, but I think you being on the roof all night answers that question.”

Itachi lets his brother go. He lowers his head, makes an effort to look properly apologetic.

“Sorry,” he offers.

Mother sighs. “You’re lucky your father’s not home. You know how he feels about you two going up on the roof.”

Itachi realizes he’s being scolded, realizes he should probably be focusing all of his energy on apologizing, but his mind snags on that first sentence. _Father’s still not back?_ He tries to think, to remember what day it is. _Friday or Saturday, maybe?_

Itachi hazards a guess. “Work?”

Mother spares a fleeting glance down at Sasuke before avoiding the question. “There’s a clan meeting this afternoon,” she says instead. “We’re meeting your father at the shrine in an hour; both of you need to go get ready.”

_Not work, then._

“ _No_!” Sasuke immediately groans. “Do I have to go?”

It takes Itachi another second, but eventually his mother’s words actually start to sink in. He blinks. _There’s a meeting?_

Mother levels Sasuke with a flat stare. “Yes, Sasuke, you have to go.” She motions towards the house. “Now, both of you — go clean yourselves up.”

Sasuke slouches, drags his feet on his way into the house. Itachi can’t particularly blame him for the lack of enthusiasm — it’s an early meeting, meaning it’s entirely administrative. The meetings are uneventful and monotonous, hours upon hours spent going over anything from the number of missions being tasked to the clan to a new sign on the corner of a street. Most kids in the compound, though permitted to come, stay home. But since their father is the leader of the Uchiha clan, Sasuke is required to be in attendance.

As is he, unfortunately. So Itachi turns to follow his brother, lamenting the fact that he’ll probably need to wait ages for Sasuke to finish up in the bathroom before he’ll be able to get in, and wondering idly whether he should bother eating beforehand or if it would be better to just wait until after —

His mother’s voice stops him. “Itachi?”

Itachi stops. He looks over his shoulder, sees her staring at him with worried eyes. Her arms are still crossed over her chest, but she seems to be hugging them against her body just a bit tighter than before.

“Are you really feeling alright?” she asks, and the concern coating her words coils around his skin, squeezing hard.

Itachi gives her a stiff nod. He wipes absentmindedly at his wrists. “Yeah,” he answers quietly. “I’m alright.”

His mother frowns, and it’s at that exact moment that Itachi knows she doesn’t believe him. But she uncrosses her arms anyway, tilts her head towards the house.

“Go get ready,” she requests. And so Itachi does.

The walk to the shrine an hour later is quiet, though the streets are reasonably busy. Mother is still angry, clearly. Or maybe angry is the wrong word. She’s exasperated. Frustrated. Scared — for him, maybe. Or _because_ of him, might be more accurate.

Itachi tries not to think about it as he trails behind her and Sasuke. This proves to be a relatively difficult task, however, because his brother keeps shooting him curious looks over his shoulder and his mother glances back at him a few times as well, and Itachi can’t help but feel like they’re both waiting for him to spontaneously collapse or have some sort of nervous breakdown. Maybe both. But it’s unnerving, either way, because Itachi has never been someone that needs to be _checked on_. He has a handle on all of his responsibilities, has no problem with the Reikai and his Sharingan. He’s fine — he’s absolutely _fine_.

_I-ta-chi._

Itachi keeps his face carefully composed as Sasuke peeks back at him for what he thinks is the seventeenth time.

 _I need to talk to Shisui,_ he thinks. The urgency of it stretches taut over his skin. _I need to talk to Shisui and I need to get this figured out._ And then everything will be fine.

By the time they reach the shrine, Itachi is walking ahead of his mother and brother. He takes the stairs two at a time and steps up to the water basin immediately, sidling beside the few other people standing there and quickly rinsing himself. He’s not particularly worried about being thorough — he’s not looking into the Reikai this time, after all; if he misses an entire swath of skin, it won’t matter in the slightest. What does matter, however, is finding Shisui before this damn meeting starts, so Itachi finishes up as quickly as he can before making a beeline for the entrance.

“Itachi!” Itachi turns, sees his mother and brother just reaching the top step, their hands clasped together. Mother has the same look on her face as she did earlier, the not quite angry, not quite perplexed one that she keeps aiming at him. The expression makes the guilt boil in his stomach. Perhaps a better son would’ve acted on that feeling, would have walked back towards them and waited so they could all enter the shrine together. But Itachi doesn’t move.

_I need to talk to Shisui._

“I’ll meet you inside,” he tells her instead, turning back around before he can see her face fall.

“Wait, wait, I want to come!” He hears Sasuke try and follow him, but his mother must stop him with a tug on his hand, because he immediately starts complaining. “But why _not_?”

Itachi leaves them behind, entering the front room of the shrine. He heads to the left, towards the large, sprawling space they use for meetings. Bodies are already packed inside the room, but they’re milling around, few people actually seated. Even Father is standing off to the side, hunched over a scroll as he speaks in a low voice to one of his lieutenants.

 _So I still have time,_ he thinks.

Itachi stands at the doorway, scans his eyes over the room. His gaze drifts over shoulders and backs, chests and faces. But none of them belong to Shisui.

Itachi frowns. _Where the hell is he?_

He rakes his eyes back over the space, again and again and again, because Shisui should _be here_ , there’s no reason —

His eyes lock on a body tucked into the far back corner. He catches sight of a familiar mess of hair, his cousin’s head buried between his knees. Itachi huffs a relieved laugh. _Guess he didn’t sleep, either._

Itachi picks his way across the room, carefully making his way towards Shisui. His cousin doesn’t see him approach, doesn’t even seem to sense his presence at all, really, not even when Itachi’s standing right next to him.

 _Gods, he’s fucking out of it._ Not that Itachi’s entirely surprised — Shisui has mastered the art of falling asleep in the most ill-conceived places. If his cousin is tired and he has the opportunity to do so, he’ll sleep just about anywhere. Locations which include, but are not limited to: showers, supply closets, a raft in the middle of the Naka, and, evidently, an afternoon clan meeting.

Itachi bites back a smug smirk as he nudges Shisui with the toe of his shoe.

Shisui nearly jumps a foot into the air. His arms flail as he looks around, wild-eyed, until his gaze finally locks on Itachi.

Shisui immediately scowls at him. “Shit.” He sighs, wipes at his face. “Don’t _do_ that. Fuck.”

Itachi raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t sleep?” he asks, taking a seat next to Shisui.

Shisui just groans. “Aren’t you supposed to be sitting upfront?” he grumbles, ignoring Itachi’s question entirely.

“You’re technically supposed to be sitting there, too,” Itachi points out. “That entire front row is meant for Mangekyou users.”

“I’m the only damn Mangekyou user,” Shisui mutters, resting his chin on his knees. “Which means I can sit wherever the hell I want.” His cousin peers at him, then, a grin spreading across his face. “You, on the other hand, need to get your ass up there with the rest of your family before Fugaku blows a fucking gasket.”

Itachi rolls his eyes. _Dramatic, as always._ “The meeting isn’t starting yet. And I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah?” Shisui tilts his head to the side. “What about?”

 _What about?_ “You’re kidding.”

Shisui frowns, shakes his head. “No, I really don’t — _oh_!” He jabs a finger at Itachi. “Is this about that new dango shop that’s opening? Listen, don’t even worry about it; it doesn’t stand a chance against Yori’s place —”

 _You asshole._ Itachi roughly elbows Shisui in the ribs. “Would you quit screwing around?” he hisses. “I’m being serious.”

Shisui snickers, shrinking back in a vain attempt to avoid the assault. “But you just make it so _easy_ ,” he teases.

Itachi grinds his teeth together so hard his jaw hurts. “ _Shisui_ —”

Shisui sighs contentedly, leans back. “I know, I know.” He waves a hand at Itachi, his head lolling to the side. “I can’t today, though. We’re gonna have to wait until tomorrow to do anything.”

“Tomorrow?” Itachi frowns. “Why —”

“I’m calling this meeting to order.” Itachi looks up, sees that Father has taken up his spot at the front of the room.

_Fuck._

**Shisui**

Shisui won’t lie: he’s relieved by the interruption. He realizes it’s only delaying the inevitable, that Itachi will find out why Shisui can’t help him today soon enough. Hell, the entire clan will know about it at some point, will probably start trading it back and forth in whispered rumors the second they realize Shisui and Fugaku aren’t leaving the shrine today. Because it’s not a secret, what’s happening later. Shisui wishes it was, but it’s not. Everyone is permitted to know about it, to be aware of what Fugaku has approved. The only real consolation is that they can’t watch — no, only Mangekyou users get the distinct pleasure of doing that.

And Shisui’s the only damn Mangekyou user this clan has.

People start moving around them, making their way to their seats. A dull dread coils in Shisui’s stomach, and he lets out a shallow sigh as he digs a knuckle into the corner of his eye.

 _Gods_ , he doesn’t want to fucking be here. He doesn’t want to sit through this meeting, doesn’t want to pretend like he gives even a single, minuscule fuck about it. All he wants is to press himself into the wall until his skin and bones melt into the shadows, until the floor disappears beneath his feet and his body dissolves into nothing. He wants to be gone, to hide away until this fucking day is _over_.

But Fugaku is only willing to give him so much leeway. Shisui might be able to get away with sitting at the back of the room, might be able to get away with holding his sullen silence, but his uncle will hardly tolerate him skipping the meeting outright, regardless of what Shisui has to do later. Because the clan comes first. The clan always comes first.

_Itachi, on the other hand..._

He turns and nudges his cousin, silently urging him to go up front with the rest of his family. Because Shisui wasn’t at all joking before — Itachi _really_ isn’t supposed to be sitting back here.

Itachi just shoots him a petulant glare, shoves back at him with a bit more force than entirely necessary. And he doesn’t move.

Shisui frowns. _Fucking hell._ “Are you really going to play that game with your father?” he whispers. “Just go upfront and —”

“How early did you get here?” Itachi asks abruptly. His eyes drill into Shisui, and it’s then that Shisui realizes his cousin is already putting the pieces together, is already starting to figure out _why_.

Sometimes he forgets that Itachi is a literal fucking genius.

Shisui doesn’t answer — he rolls his eyes instead, settles back against the corner he’s claimed as _his_ for the day. “Fine, do what you want,” he relents, feigning something close to exasperation. “It’s your funeral.”

“You’ve been here since sunrise, haven’t you?” Itachi presses, and Shisui feels something cold claw at his lungs. Because his cousin is right, of course — Shisui’s been at the shrine since _before_ sunrise, in fact, had come over with Fugaku right after his uncle’s impromptu interrogation.

Shisui doesn’t react to Itachi’s question; he keeps himself entirely quiet, entirely still.

Itachi shifts beside him. “It’s another enucleation, isn’t it?” he asks, and a mild nausea throbs in the back of Shisui’s throat at how _casually_ Itachi says the word. _Enucleation_. As if it is merely conceptual, something that happens to _other_ people.

“Who —”

“Shh.” Shisui swipes a hand at him, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. “It’s starting.”

And the meeting _is_ starting, thank the gods — Fugaku has pulled out a scroll, has started reading down the docket for the day. But a sharp _drone_ has started building in Shisui’s ears, and it drowns out Fugaku’s voice bit by bit until Shisui can’t hear him at all.

_Who?_

A cool numbness spreads up his spine, makes his marrow vibrate. _Who, who, who, who, who?_

Minori Uchiha. Minori Uchiha is going to have her eyes removed today, and Shisui is duty bound to watch.

Fugaku was apologetic when he told him. Not about the enucleation itself, more so about how short a notice Shisui was being given to prepare for it.

 _“I thought we had another few weeks, at least,”_ his uncle said, _“but Suou says she’ll die if her eyes aren’t removed immediately. I approved the procedure a few hours ago.”_

It felt like a gut punch. 

_“You’ll have to be at the shrine before sunrise today,”_ Fugaku continued, giving him a look that almost bordered on regretful. _“I’m heading there now, if you’d like to come with me.”_

Shisui scrubbed a hand hard over his face, trying to remember how to breathe as black tendrils started creeping across the edges of his vision.

 _No,_ he wanted to say. _Don’t ask me to do this — please don’t ask me to do this._

He forced himself to nod instead, a stiff emptiness already invading his bones, hollowing them from the inside out. _“Okay,”_ he said. _“Yeah, okay. Let me just get changed.”_

Shisui and Fugaku haven’t left the shrine since — Shisui because he isn’t allowed to, and Fugaku because he evidently doesn’t want to. Shisui himself is required to stay on shrine premises for a full twenty-four hours, isn’t permitted to leave until the ritual ends at sunrise the next day. But Fugaku is neither a Mangekyou wielder nor a healer; he can’t witness the procedure or its aftermath, can’t take part in it in any way. As the leader of the Uchiha clan, as the one who approved the ritual, he is required to be present during it, of course. But he doesn’t need to be at the shrine for a full twenty-four hours like Shisui.

And yet he stays anyway.

Whether his uncle does it to keep Shisui company or because he doesn’t entirely trust Shisui not to leave, he’s not entirely sure. Not that Shisui has ever tried to leave before an enucleation. He wants to, wants to do nothing more, in fact. But he doesn’t. Though Fugaku has never actually given him the chance by leaving him alone either, now that he thinks about it.

His vision slowly blurs, and he finds himself staring blankly at the Uchiha crest sewn onto the back of the shirt in front of him. Because it’s awful. Awful, awful, awful. Shisui understands logically why he has to be present, understands that a Mangekyou user is the only one able to witness the procedure and carry out the second half of it. It’s not just a simple matter of removing Minori’s eyes, after all — she will get a choice, afterwards, a choice that, in the eyes of the gods, only Shisui can offer her.

And that just makes it worse.

_Minori. Minori, Minori, Minori._

She wasn’t a bad person — _isn’t_ a bad person. She just made a mistake; a terrible, _terrible_ mistake. She got too cocky, too arrogant, had watched Itachi and thought that her Sharingan was surely capable of the same.

Shisui blames himself. He should’ve known what she was going to try and do, should’ve recognized her intentions for what they were. Looking back, it was obvious — the extensive time she spent in the prayer hall, the lingering glances she directed at Itachi the weeks before. The glassy, vacant look in her eye that last time he saw her in the shrine, right after she came back from the Reikai.

 _“Maybe we can all call down gods,”_ she’d said, staring in wonder at her own reflection.

Shisui should’ve known then. But plenty of Uchiha leave the Reikai muttering insanities, the remnants of the spiritual realm still buzzing inside of them, making them _yearn_ for the power of it. If he worried over every single word he’s heard someone speak after looking into the Reikai, he’d drive himself insane. So he wrote off Minori’s ramblings as nothing more than a wistful musing, and watched her walk straight out of the shrine.

If he’d known she actually thought she could — if he’d thought she was actually going to _try_ to —

But he didn’t. And she did. And her Sharingan couldn’t handle it, because a basic Sharingan isn’t meant to channel the gods.

Minori was brought back to the village in critical condition after the mission. The hospital was able to stabilize her physically, and she was given a clean bill of health after a month. But no one outside the clan truly understands what the Sharingan is capable of, what it can do. And the doctors there didn’t know what had really happened to her. To them, she seemed fine — she was happy, cracking jokes, bitching about the shitty hospital food. Even when she returned to the compound, she was in good spirits. But everyone with a Sharingan could sense it — that tiny, minute fracture in the back of her mind. And they knew what was going to happen.

It was slow, little fits of madness that grew and grew and grew until Minori was barely functioning. She stopped eating, first. Skipping meals, leaving food on her plate. Eventually she started refusing to eat outright, wouldn’t even touch a crumb. Then she started forgetting things, stopped being able to recall anything that had happened the previous day, the previous hour, the previous minute. The hysteria came soon after, and it was at that point that Fugaku put her under Suou’s direct care. He gave Suou permission to give her every drug imaginable, _anything_ Suou could come up with that might be able to heal her, that might reverse the damage done to her mind. But none of it is working, evidently. And the only way to save her now is by removing her eyes, by breaking her connection to the spiritual realm forever. A final, last resort.

It’s odd, because Shisui isn’t worried about the actual procedure. It’s horrendous to watch, but it works — a practically instantaneous cure. It’s what comes after that he dreads the most, the choice Minori has to make once all is said and done.

The red panel of the crest bleeds.

 _We’re all so fragile,_ Shisui thinks dully, _all of us just a breath away from madness._

He wonders how much longer he’ll be able to run from it.

Something jostles his arm suddenly, and Shisui chokes on the air in his throat as he’s snapped roughly out of his thoughts. He glances over at Itachi. _What the fuck?_

Itachi is peering at him from the side of his eye. His cousin subtly jerks his head towards the front of the room, then, and Shisui looks over to see Fugaku staring at him.

Actually, everyone is staring at him.

_Shit._

He stands up in one quick motion, regards Fugaku with a small dip of his head. “Sir.”

A few quiet snickers break out in the room, and Shisui has to force himself not to glare at them. Because they don’t know what’s happening yet; they don’t _know_ , and he can’t hold that against them.

Fugaku doesn’t comment on any of it. He has a pen balanced in his hand, his arm poised above a thin scroll. “How many missions have you been assigned this past month?” his uncle asks.

Shisui has to think about it, has to fight to find the answer through the fog crowding his mind. There was the one a few weeks ago, the guard detail...

“Three,” Shisui eventually answers.

A muttered displeasure spreads across the room.

Fugaku nods, makes a quick note on the paper. “Thank you, Shisui.”

Shisui sits back down carefully. He ducks his head, tilts his body slightly towards Itachi. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

Itachi lifts his shoulder in a small shrug.

“That makes twenty-three, then,” Fugaku announces, and Shisui feels the discontent in the room grow. It’s a low number, without a doubt — less than one mission per shinobi in the room. No one voices their concerns, though; now isn’t the time for it. It will be marked and set aside for a later meeting, one held after the sun has already set.

Shisui swipes at his face, takes in a loud inhalation of air that draws a sharp look from Itachi. _As if there isn’t already enough to deal with,_ he bemoans.

The rest of the meeting is tense, the air practically boiling around them all. Shisui can feel the anger there, feels it pulsing across the floor and up into his body. But he tries not to focus on it, tries to disconnect himself from it; he has other things to fucking worry about today. This can be tomorrow’s problem.

_Along with the Reikai._

His eyes unfocus again, the crest blurring as he unhinges his mind from the world around him.

 _Don’t think,_ he tells himself. _Just don’t think._

Time ceases to exist for Shisui. He isn’t sure how much longer the meeting goes on for. It could’ve been hours, seconds, minutes; all he knows is that it eventually ends, because the crest in front of him is suddenly moving, pulling up towards the ceiling as the person stands. He blinks, glances around the room, and he realizes that everyone is getting up, moving towards the exit to leave.

His organs convulse. If the meeting is over, that just means Minori’s enucleation is that much closer to happening.

Shisui doesn’t get up to follow them out — it’s not like he can leave the shrine, anyway. So he takes a breath, presses himself further back into the corner, and focuses on the way the wall digs uncomfortably against his spine.

It takes him a moment to realize that Itachi hasn’t moved from his side.

He looks over, sees that his cousin isn’t looking at him. So Shisui leans towards him, bumps Itachi’s shoulder with his own. “You don’t have to wait with me,” he tells Itachi, forcing a small lilt into his voice; his cousin will hardly leave if he realizes how distraught Shisui actually is.

Itachi glances at him, a frown already gracing his features. “Are you sure?” he asks.

“Yeah,” he assures him. “It’s not like I’ll be by myself — I have your father to keep me company. He promised we’d play board games.”

Itachi actually huffs a laugh at that. “I’m sure.” His cousin still doesn’t move.

Shisui takes a breath. “It’s fine, Itachi, really.” He tries to give Itachi a comforting smile, but he feels it fall flat around the edges. “I’ll swing by your house tomorrow morning, alright? We’ll deal with the Reikai then.”

Itachi shakes his head, rolls the edge of his shirt between his fingers. “I have an ANBU briefing first thing,” he says. His cousin looks up at him, and the unease in his eyes is almost palpable. “I’ll find you when I get back?”

“That works.” Shisui places a hand on Itachi’s shoulder, gives him a hard squeeze and offers him a grin that he knows doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll see you then.”

Itachi looks like he wants to say something else, his lips parting ever so slightly. But then he closes his mouth and nods, standing up stiffly instead. “See you,” he says.

Shisui watches his cousin slowly make his way to the exit. Mikoto and Sasuke are off to the side, waiting for him, and Shisui’s heart clenches painfully in his chest when Mikoto glances over Itachi’s shoulder and gives him a sad, _sad_ smile.

What he wouldn’t give to be going home with a family right now, to be walking out of this meeting side by side with someone.

But duty calls.

With everyone gone now, Shisui allows himself to slump back against corner, turning his attention to the front of the room. Fugaku is still sitting there, writing. He won’t speak to Shisui until Suou and Minori arrive. It’s not a rule, really, more a preference. On Shisui’s part, actually, because if he’s going to be forced to partake in this damn ritual, the least he wants is to not have to make small talk before it.

So they sit in silence, Shisui curled against the wall and Fugaku’s dull pen strokes the only noise between them.

_Don’t think. Don’t think._

Hours pass. Shisui does a fine job of pretending he doesn’t exist, he thinks, of pretending that he’s somewhere else, _anywhere_ else. But then the sun begins to set, the light shifting through the windows.

And Suou and Minori enter the shrine.

The sound of the doors creaking shut is piercing in the silence that’s pervaded the shrine, the sound of the latch falling sending a harsh shudder through Shisui’s body. He feels paralyzed, suddenly, his cells rooted to the floor.

 _I can’t get up,_ he realizes. _I’m not going to be able to get up._

Across the room, Fugaku stands. 

Shisui closes his eyes, forces himself to take a breath. _Don’t think._

He peels himself off the wall inch by inch, gingerly gets to his feet. His ankles feel like they’re wrapped in steel as he follows Fugaku out to the front room.

 _Don’t think,_ he tells himself. _Just don’t think._

Minori is already sitting on the table, a thick burlap cloth spread across the wood underneath her. She’s completely still as Suou crouches in front of her and tips a small vial into her mouth, and Shisui has to try not to cringe as he watches it disappear down her throat. He wonders how aware she is, whether she knows what’s about to happen.

It’s awful, he knows, but part of him hopes she doesn’t. Part of him hopes she’s so far gone that she doesn’t even realize she’s in the shrine. It’ll make it easier. For her. For him.

Shisui watches them for a moment, and he can’t stop his eyes from going to the katana tucked into the band of Suou’s robe. It’s encased in a beautiful scabbard, black lacquered wood that gleams in the candlelight. It was provided by Minori’s family, no doubt, given as soon as it became evident that their daughter may undergo an enucleation. They gave it to Fugaku, first, Shisui knows, who then passed it off to Suou so it could be cleansed for the ritual.

And now it will be handed off to Shisui.

Suou glances over Minori’s shoulder, sees them standing there. He offers her a few quiet words before hastening over to them, the katana shifting against his leg with every step.

“I’ve given her something to calm her,” he whispers once he reaches them, “though she won’t be completely relaxed until I perform the jutsu.”

Fugaku nods. “Good,” he says. “And you have everything you need?”

“Yes.” Suou gives Fugaku a small smile, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he reaches towards the pocket of his robe. “She’s in good hands, I assure you.” He glances at Shisui, then, his gaze softening. “And you, Shisui? Are you ready?”

_Don’t think._

“Yes.” His voice sounds hollow to his own ears, though, like it belongs to someone else.

Suou places a delicate hand on his arm. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, child,” he tells him. “But you’re helping her by doing this; it might not feel like it, but you are.”

_I’m not helping anyone._

Shisui just holds his hand out.

Suou is silent as he reaches down and removes the katana. The hilt is smooth against Shisui’s skin as he takes hold of it, and he hates how natural it feels in his grasp, how his body automatically adjusts itself as it prepares to wield it.

He slips it into the holder at his waist, his fingers burning.

_Don’t think._

“Okay,” Fugaku exhales. “I’ll leave you both to it, then.”

Suou dips his head towards his uncle, a show of deference that Suou doesn’t owe to anyone, least of all Fugaku. Shisui doesn’t move.

“I’ll come to you after the procedure is complete,” Suou promises.

 _While I stay with Minori,_ Shisui thinks. He feels removed, detached, wholly disconnected from his body. _While I stay and wait for her to make her decision._

Shisui feels Fugaku shift beside him, hears him make his way quietly to the meeting room. The door slides shut behind him.

And this is when it begins.

Suou turns back to Shisui. He tilts his head back towards the center of the room. “You may take your place now, Shisui.”

_Don’t think._

Shisui moves his left leg forward first, then his right. He does this again and again until he’s walked around the length of the table, until he’s positioned himself directly in front of Minori.

_Don’t think._

Her skin is wet, the ends of her hair still dripping from the basin outside. She stares blankly at the wall behind him, her eyes milky and bloodshot. She doesn’t acknowledge the fact that he’s there, doesn’t seem to even see him at all.

Looking at her, Shisui understands why her eyes need to be removed. Suou may work miracles, but there isn’t a drug in the world that can help her now; an enucleation is the only thing that can save her.

Shisui just hopes that she doesn’t still choose to die after it’s over.

Minori’s eyes shift, then, glance up at him. And it’s with a dull horror that Shisui realizes she’s not completely gone, not yet. Her eyes lock on him, a vague recognition filtering onto her face. And he watches as understanding begins to dawn on her.

The tremors start small, moving from her shoulders down the entirety of her body. But soon her limbs are jerking, her muscles convulsing violently as she looks at him in mute horror.

“No,” she sobs, her face scrunching up horribly as she stares at him. “No, no, no, please, no, _no_ —”

“Shh, child, it will be alright.” Suou moves to stand beside them, places his hands delicately on Minori’s shoulders and pushes her gently back onto the table. Shisui sees Minori’s eyes light up, sees the urge to fight against what’s about to happen flaring up inside of her. But whatever Suou has given her has dulled her senses, has loosened the control she has over her own body, and she only manages to place her fingers loosely over Suou’s as he lays her down. But her eyes are still bulging in terror, panic-stricken as she stares at the ceiling and keeps whispering under her breath.

“Please don’t, no, no, please. Please don’t take my eyes, don’t take my eyes. Please, please, not my eyes, not my eyes —”

Suou brushes his hands over her forehead, moves her bangs away from her face. “Shh,” he soothes. “Just relax.” His fingers begin to glow, then, a dull green that makes Shisui sick.

Minori keeps muttering, her breaths coming out in short, tiny gasps. “No, no, stop, _stop_. Shi — Shisui —” the blood freezes in his veins “— Shisui, make him stop, tell him to stop. Shisui, tell him not to take my eyes. Not my eyes, not my eyes, tell him not to take my...my eyes...not — not my...” 

She trails off with one last gasp of air. Her eyes glaze over, then, her lids droop.

“Shh,” Suou says once more, carefully removing his hands. Minori doesn’t move, her body entirely lax.

Suou reaches into a fold of his robe, then, pulls out a thick roll of cloth along with a liquid filled jar. He lays both on the table next to Minori’s head and slowly unravels the cloth, revealing a wicked array of tools. The glinting metal makes Shisui’s stomach roll.

And this isn’t even the worst part.

_Don’t think._

Suou glances up at him, makes sure Shisui is watching. “Ready, child?” he asks.

Shisui activates his Sharingan, feels the dull burn of chakra at the back of his eyes as he lets it bleed into the Mangekyou.

He nods.

Suou pulls out a thin scroll from his pocket. He lifts Minori’s head and rolls it open underneath her, placing her back down carefully in the center of it.

The signs he performs over Minori’s head are simple — even someone without the Sharingan would’ve been able to keep track of them. And yet not even Shisui’s Mangekyou can replicate it, can enable him to perform the sealing jutsu in the same way Suou does. He’s tapping into something that none of them have access to, an energy that can’t be perceived and copied. It brings the inked characters on the scroll to life, urges them to start creeping onto Minori’s face and start circling around her eyes. Even Shisui finds himself entranced by it, lost in the hypnotic motion of it.

The ink lightens, then, seeping into Minori’s pores and staining her skin. Suou reaches for the speculum, and it’s then that Shisui comes crashing back down to reality.

_Don’t think._

The left eye is first — the left eye is always first. Suou inserts the speculum slowly, _carefully_ , spreading Minori’s eyelid wide open. Shisui feels a familiar fog of static descend over his mind, feels his consciousness scurry off to some far corner of his skull as it tries to shield itself from the scene unfolding before him.

But he has to watch. He _has_ to watch.

Suou’s movements are quick, precise. The man wastes no time in cutting the tissue and muscles, in severing the eye from Minori’s skull. He’s practiced at it, obviously, though Shisui knows that the removal of the eye is hardly the most difficult part of this procedure. He watches as Suou digs the eye out in one smooth motion, popping the top of the jar off and placing the eyeball inside. 

_Plop._

Suou’s fingers light up green as he reaches back into Minori’s socket, and a terrible sizzling sound floats across the room. The smell of smoking flesh reaches Shisui’s nose a moment later.

He nearly hurls.

_Don’t think._

Suou pulls back after a few minutes, tilting his head as he considers his handiwork. He hums.

“That should work,” he mumbles as he reaches over to seal her eye shut, using his chakra to melt the flesh of her lids together.

_Don’t think._

The procedure is the same on the right eye, though that hardly makes it any easier to watch. Suou is almost finished with the process when Shisui’s eyes begin to unfocus, the static crawling across his vision as his mind tries to fling itself straight out of his skull. Because this isn’t the worst part — what comes next is. And it’s so, so close now.

It’s then that, for an awful, terrible moment, he sees Itachi lying on the table instead of Minori.

He doesn’t feel himself move, but he must make some sort of noise because Suou is suddenly looking up at him, his brow furrowed.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Shisui takes a deep, shaky breath as his vision refocuses, Itachi’s face roughly shifting back into Minori’s.

He nods.

Suou stares at him for another moment before turning his gaze back down to Minori.

“I know this isn’t easy for you,” he tells Shisui, continuing to work at Minori’s eye. “I’ve not met a single Mangekyou user who doesn’t despise this ritual, and for good reason. But I promise you, it does help people.” Suou reaches for the bandage roll, lifts up the edge of it with one of his nails. “An enucleation can’t be performed at all without a Mangekyou user — if not for you, Minori would’ve been condemned to die a terrible, painful death. You’re very presence is saving her.”

_I’m not saving her. She’s going to want to die, anyway._

“That’s a possibility,” Suou says, and the sound of his voice makes Shisui start. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud. “But at least this way it will be her choice.”

Suou wraps the bandage carefully around Minori’s head. A psychological tactic, more than anything, something that will help ease her into her newfound blindness. Shisui can’t imagine that it actually helps all that much, but he supposes it’s the thought that counts.

Suou reaches into his sleeve once he secures the end of the bandage, produces another small vial. Its contents are a dull blue, and a sharp familiarity shoots through Shisui’s chest as he watches Suou pop the top off and rest it gently against Minori’s lips, tipping it down her throat.

_“Say aaaah.”_

Suou makes a hand sign, then, and the seals on Minori’s face slowly lift, crawling back onto the scroll.

“She’ll wake up in a few hours,” Suou tells him as soon as the characters still. He takes the scroll gently from underneath her head and rolls it back up, resting it between his fingers as he turns to wrap up the cloth as well. Shisui watches as he deposits both back into his robe, but he tries to keep his eyes off the jar as Suou gently picks it up and puts on the lid. The movement of Minori’s eyes inexplicably draws his attention, though. They jostle lightly against each other, the veins prominent as they float side-by-side in the liquid.

_Don’t think._

“I don’t need to remind you that you can’t speak to her, yes?” Suou asks as he tucks the jar into the crook of his arm.

Shisui looks up, his chest tight. He shakes his head.

“I’ll be in the other room with Fugaku,” Suou tells him gently, taking a step away from the table. “We’ll come get you as soon as the sun rises.”

 _Don’t leave,_ Shisui wants to say. _Please don’t leave._

But he doesn’t speak out loud, this time.

The fabric of Suou’s robe shifts, and the man slowly makes his way to the door of the meeting room. It slides open quietly, barely making a sound.

_Don’t. Please don’t._

Suou slips inside. And Shisui is left standing motionless in front of the table, staring miserably at the panels of the screen as the door closes behind him.

Shisui doesn’t move. The air is thick around him, pressing against his skin, trying to invade his pores. He still has the smell of burnt flesh in his nose, and the sound of crackling skin is still ringing in his ears. Panic blooms in his chest. _I’m not going to be able to do this._

The katana is heavy at his waist, pulling his body to the side. His leg aches with the extra weight of it, and he feels his muscles begin to tremble.

_I’m not going to be able to do this._

But he doesn’t have a choice.

He wishes he could comfort her when she wakes up, at least. Wishes he could offer her advice, could tell her that she has people who love her, people who care about her. He would beg her to walk out of the shrine with him, would get on his hands and knees if he had to. _Anything_ to convince her that her life is still worth living.

But all he can do is offer her a choice, a choice she alone has to make before the sun rises.

So Shisui stands there and waits.

Suou is right — it takes hours before Minori wakes. Which gives Shisui plenty of time to think, to stare detachedly at her body and try not to mull over how much worse this situation could be.

But it could be worse, he thinks. It could be much, much worse. Because Itachi could be the one lying here instead. And while Shisui detests every enucleation he is forced to oversee, he has no doubt that Itachi’s would be the one that finally kills him.

Shisui never wants to know what made Itachi call down a god for the first time, what made him think his Sharingan could withstand the power of it. Because every time he witnesses one of these, he can’t help but think that the next one is going to be Itachi, that he’s going to have to sit there while Suou scrapes out his cousin’s eyeballs, that he’s going to have to watch Itachi wake up and realize he’s _blind, blind, blind_. And Shisui won’t be able to tell him that it’s only temporary, that he’ll be fine in a few minutes. He won’t be able to tell him anything.

Shisui wonders what Itachi’s choice would be. Though he has an aching feeling that he already knows.

Minori twitches suddenly, and her head shifts to the side.

“Shisui?” she asks, and her voice is so much clearer, so much more _aware_.

Shisui moves to her side automatically, pushing past the iron in his legs. He reaches a hand out as soon as he’s close enough, grabs hold of her fingers. And he squeezes.

Minori lets out a low sob. She clutches his hand back, her knuckles turning white.

“Suou took my eyes,” she whispers sadly.

 _I’m sorry,_ he wants to tell her. _I’m so sorry._

“I can’t —” Minori takes a deep, tremulous breath. “I can’t feel it anymore. The energy. It, it feels —” She shakes her head, another soft sob escaping her mouth. Her hand begins to shake in his, and Shisui holds it tighter. “I feel so _empty_ ,” she admits quietly. “Like an entire part of my soul is missing.”

Shisui brushes his thumb along her knuckles. _It’s okay. I’m right here._

“I just wanted — I just wanted to — I thought I could —”

_Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, I understand._

“But I can’t — I can’t call down gods,” she finally whimpers. “I thought I could, thought my Sharingan could handle it, but, but —”

Ice floods Shisui’s veins, and for a moment he’s transported back to his cousin’s bedroom. _“I thought I could handle it.”_

Because no one does this thinking they can’t.

“And now I’ll never, I’ll never —” Shisui’s attention is pulled back to Minori as her nails dig painfully into his skin, and he watches as she takes a large, gulping breath. “I’ll never commune with the gods again.”

Shisui places his other hand on hers, cupping it between his palms. _It’s okay._

But Minori seems almost stunned by this realization, her lips parting as she considers this new reality. “I’ll never commune with the gods again,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

A throbbing silence encases them for a time. Shisui keeps his hands on Minori’s, hoping that somehow this small comfort will change her mind, will convince her to keep living.

But then her head falls towards him and she gives him a small, quivering smile. And Shisui’s heart _shatters_. “I’m sorry,” she tells him. “But I can’t live without my eyes.”

Minori blurs in front of him as his eyes begin to water, and he has to bite back his own sob. _Please don’t._

She reaches up, strokes his arm lightly with her fingertips. “I don’t know how this works,” she admits. “They don’t tell us that when we awaken our Sharingan. Do I need to say it? Or can you just...” She trails off, and Shisui can’t stop the agonized exhalation that leaves his mouth.

Her hand immediately wraps around his arm. “Hey, it’s okay,” she tells him. “It’s okay. It’s what I want.”

Shisui wipes at his eyes, and he can barely breathe when he realizes she’s still smiling at him. “It’s okay,” she repeats. She struggles to push herself up, then, and Shisui doesn’t think as he places a hand on her back and helps her the rest of the way.

“I know this part, at least,” she laughs quietly, and Shisui’s crying now, really, _truly_ crying.

Minori tilts her head towards him. “Will it hurt?” she wonders, even though she knows Shisui can’t answer.

He squeezes her hand once more, his entire body trembling. _I’ll make sure it’s quick._

Her fingers are unbelievably soft, unbelievably gentle, as she squeezes his hand back. “Thank you.”

 _Don’t thank me,_ he begs. _Don’t thank me for this._

The amount of effort it takes to walk behind her, to grab hold of the katana, is indescribable. But she’s made her choice. And he can’t say no.

Shisui feels entirely numb as his fingers wrap around the hilt of the sword, as he pulls it free from its scabbard. He places a hand on her shoulder, lets her know that he’s there. She isn’t shaking when she reaches up to grasp at his fingers.

It’s painful to pull away from her, to take a step back and aim the katana _just so_. But he has to, isn’t allowed _not_ to. So he takes a breath, and he does.

The candlelight glints off the blade.

_I’m sorry._

And then Shisui shoves the sword straight through her heart.

The katana slips between her ribs, sliding through skin and muscle until it drives through her left ventricle. Shisui sweeps the katana to the side _hard_ and pulls it back out in one quick, smooth motion.

Minori lets out a single, choked breath. And then she slumps.

Shisui hurries to catch her before her body falls, his hand balling into the fabric of her shirt and his fingers digging into her back. He eases her down slowly, _carefully_ , takes as much care as he can to lean her gently back against the table.

_I’m sorry._

Blood is spreading across the front of her shirt, but her face is calm, peaceful. And Shisui can almost pretend that she’s just asleep, can almost pretend that he didn’t just end her life.

The katana is still clutched tightly in his hand, and his tendons ache from it. But he isn’t allowed to let go of the sword, not until the sun rises.

Over an hour passes. And then Suou and Fugaku enter the room. He doesn’t actually hear them come in, is only alerted to their presence when a hand lands softly on his shoulder. Which means the sun is up, and it’s over. It’s all over.

Fugaku’s voice is a garbled mess in his ears, but he manages to make out the words nonetheless. “Go do what you have to,” his uncle says. “I’ll help Suou with her body.”

He stares unseeing at Minori, at her bandaged face.

_I’m sorry._

“Shisui,” Suou says, and another hand lands lightly on his arm. “You have to add the sword to the pile.”

Shisui just nods. Because he does have to do that.

But he can’t look away from her.

Fugaku sighs, and the hand on his shoulder tugs him to the side. “Come on,” he tells Shisui. “You’re almost done.”

His feet move without his permission, following Fugaku. But his eyes stay locked on Minori, on the stillness of her body.

_I’m sorry._

His vision shifts abruptly as Fugaku turns him around. Suddenly he’s looking into the prayer hall, the door to it already open and the faceless idol staring back at him. Fugaku steps inside with him, and the room dims as he shuts the door behind both of them.

They stand at the entrance. And Shisui doesn’t move — he _can’t_ move.

A gentle hand pushes at his back. “Go,” Fugaku tells Shisui, and it comes out as an order, as a command. The tone kicks the disciplined part of his brain into gear, and Shisui belatedly realizes he’s already walking towards the front of the room, moving mechanically towards the idol with the bloody sword still grasped in his hand.

_I’m sorry._

He stops at the base of the altar. The gleaming face of the idol grins at him, and his hand feels like it’s on fire.

Shisui flings the blood-stained sword onto the bottom of the pile, suddenly desperate to get away from it. The clanging metal is thunderous in the silence of the hall, and a few of the candles fall to the floor with dull _thuds_. But Shisui doesn’t care, because his hand is covered in blood and Minori is in the other room and she’s dead, she’s _dead_ , and he’s — he’s the one that — that —

His legs buckle, and he falls to his knees. Bows his head low to the floor. Fugaku’s eyes are on him — he can feel them drilling into his back, ripping apart his skin and staring into the contents of his soul. He clutches at his chest, tries to keep his ribs from cracking apart.

The air is thick as he forces it down into his lungs.

_I’m sorry._

And Shisui screams.


	5. A Chicken at One End and a Dinosaur at the Other

**Sasuke**

When Sasuke wakes up the next morning, he finds Shisui asleep on the couch.

He’s on his way to the kitchen when he notices his cousin, his bare feet padding softly along the floorboards as he follows the alluring smell of his mother’s cooking. He glances at the couch out of habit, not actually expecting anything to be there, but ends up stutter-stepping when he sees a large, amorphous lump spread across the length of it. A shock of dark hair is peeking out near the arm of the couch, but the rest of the person’s body is entirely concealed by a suffocatingly large heap of blankets.

Sasuke doesn’t need to see the person’s face to know exactly who’s hidden there. The top blanket on the pile, after all, is his mother’s favorite: a pink knit one that she usually keeps tucked at the top of her closet. No one touches that blanket except her, and she only ever takes it out if _one of her boys_ needs it, as she says. Which means the person in front of him is one of three people — it’s not himself, clearly, and he heard his mother bid Itachi goodbye over an hour ago when he left for the day.

And so that leaves Shisui.

Which is odd, Sasuke thinks. Not Shisui being there, asleep on the couch with his mother’s blanket — no, that isn’t the part that’s making him pause. Shisui’s a near constant presence in their house, anyway, Sasuke liable to run into him at just about any given hour of the day. So seeing him here, in his house, doesn’t strike Sasuke as particularly abnormal. There’s something else about it, something that’s needling at the back of his mind and whispering _wrong, wrong, wrong_.

He stares at Shisui for a moment, contemplating. Because something is...off. But he can’t figure out what.

“Let him sleep, Sasuke.”

Sasuke jumps at the sudden voice. He twists around and sees Father standing in the doorway behind him, his arms crossed and a slight frown on his face.

A protest instantly springs from Sasuke’s lips. “But I wasn’t bothering —”

Father lifts a hand and puts a finger in front of his mouth. Sasuke quiets himself immediately. Father glances over at Shisui, then, and Sasuke instinctively follows his gaze. He half expects Shisui to be sitting up, peering at them through sleepy eyes while he mutters something under his breath about being woken up so unceremoniously. Which wouldn’t be entirely fair, Sasuke thinks, since Shisui’s on _his_ couch in _his_ house, sleeping while the rest of them are already up. He’s in no position to complain about Sasuke being too loud or too inconsiderate — if he wants quiet, then he should sleep at his own house.

But Sasuke doesn’t get to point any of that out, because Shisui isn’t looking at them. He’s just lying there, buried under the blankets. Quiet. Still.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong._

Sasuke feels a hand on his shoulder, and his father starts gently nudging him towards the kitchen. “Come on, your mother has breakfast ready,” Father says softly.

Hardly left with any other choice, Sasuke finds himself walking forward. But he keeps half an eye on the mountainous lump that is his cousin as they pass through the room, almost willing Shisui to move, to roll over or flail a limb or _something_.

Shisui doesn’t even twitch.

Mother is at the counter when Sasuke and Father enter the kitchen. Her back is to them, her head bowed as she presses her arm down in a steady, even rhythm, grinding a pestle against its mortar. She doesn’t seem to hear them come in — she doesn’t look over, doesn’t pause her movements even slightly. She just keeps grinding, the muscles in her back jumping underneath the fabric of her shirt.

 _Not a shirt,_ Sasuke suddenly realizes. It’s a dress, actually — one of her nice ones, the purple one that she only ever puts on for special occasions.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong._

Father urges him towards the table silently, and Sasuke obediently goes to take his seat, his eyes still fixed on his mother. He’s used to watching her mix and grind herbs, used to watching her steady, methodical movements. But she seems tense, now, her shoulders and arms rigid as she drives the pestle down again and again and again.

Father walks up to her slowly, places a hand on her hip. He ducks his head and whispers something in her ear. She gives him a single nod. And she keeps grinding.

His father tries to step away, then, but something weird suddenly happens — Mother puts down the pestle and reaches out to him, wrapping her arm around his head to keep him next to her. Sasuke watches as she rests her head against his cheek, as she runs her hands through his hair, and it’s such a blatant show of affection that Sasuke finds himself mildly taken aback by it. Logically, he knows his parents care about each other, love each other. But he never sees them like this, so outwardly _tender_ and _vulnerable_. It feels like he’s peeking into something he shouldn’t be, a moment between them that he isn’t meant to see. But Sasuke stays quiet, nonetheless, intrigued as he watches Mother turn and give Father a soft kiss. His father’s fingers squeeze her hip ever so slightly, and a comforting warmth begins to unspool in Sasuke’s chest at the sight.

Then Father glances back at him. And Mother realizes he’s there.

Her hand drops away. 

“Good morning, dear.” Mother twists around and gives Sasuke a small smile, a light blush blossoming across her cheeks. Father, meanwhile, uses his newfound freedom to take a step away from her. He has his head down, his face turned away, but Sasuke thinks he sees the tips of his father’s ears starting to redden. “Breakfast?”

Sasuke has to bite back a grin. “Yes, please.”

Mother self-consciously tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, offering Father an abashed smile before turning back around. She pushes the pestle and mortar aside.

“Yes, well.” Father clears his throat beside her, nodding to himself. He looks back at Sasuke, and Sasuke tries not to appear too satisfied in the face of his father’s rare lack of composure.

“Your mother and I have some business to attend to,” Father says, his voice slowly regaining its authoritative steadiness. “You’ll be fine here by yourself?”

 _Oh._ That must be why she’s wearing the dress, then, Sasuke thinks. But he still feels himself start to frown, because — “Shisui isn’t staying?” he asks.

His father’s lips thin, and he crosses his arms. “Well —”

“He’s staying,” Mother interrupts, scooping a large helping of food onto a plate. “For a few days, at least.”

Father gives her a look Sasuke can’t entirely decipher, but he doesn’t comment.

“Okay,” Sasuke says hesitantly, confused now. “But if he’s staying, then I won’t be by myself.”

“You won’t,” Mother confirms, glancing back at him. “But you need to let Shisui rest while he’s here, alright? He’s not feeling too well.”

Sasuke’s eyes widen despite himself, and an acidic anxiety begins to bubble under his skin. _Is Shisui sick now, too?_ “Is he okay?”

Mother nods immediately. “He just needs a bit of rest, is all.” She twists around and tilts the plate towards Sasuke. “Is that enough?”

Sasuke flicks his eyes down. The ceramic is piled high with food, the face of the plate barely visible. If anything, it’s _too_ much. But Sasuke finds himself nodding anyway, and he reaches out to take the plate. “Thank you.”

Mother passes it to him, giving him another small smile. “You’re welcome,” she says. She wipes her hands on her apron and turns back to Father, motioning towards the mortar. “Let me just pack this up, and then we can go.”

Father’s fingers twitch. For a moment, Sasuke swears he’s going to reach back out towards Mother, is going to brush his fingers along her arm or place a hand on her shoulder.

His father takes a few more steps away from her. “I’ll be by the door,” he tells her. His gaze lingers on her as she takes the mortar and pestle in hand again, and Sasuke watches in mild fascination as he almost has to peel his eyes away from her.

Father looks at Sasuke, then, giving him a small nod of acknowledgement. “Behave yourself while we’re gone,” he instructs, and Sasuke finds himself nodding minutely at the order. Father offers Mother a single, final glance over his shoulder. And then he walks out of the room.

The kitchen is silent with just the two of them. Sasuke pokes at his food while his mother pours the contents of the mortar into a small bag, the air around them suddenly unbearably heavy. He starts tapping his chopsticks against his plate, banging his knees lightly against the underside of the table. Mother doesn’t look at him, but he doesn’t particularly care — he doesn’t want the attention. Just the noise.

“Where are you and Father going?” Sasuke asks, his voice pitched a bit louder than it actually has to be.

Mother starts to roll the bag up, tying a string around it with quick efficiency. “We’re visiting Minori’s parents,” she says.

 _Minori._ The name sounds familiar, though Sasuke can’t quite picture her face. He thinks he vaguely remembers hearing about her, though, something about her being hurt or sick, maybe? Which makes sense, he supposes, since he doesn’t recall seeing either her or her parents at the meeting yesterday.

Sasuke grabs a large bite of food with his chopsticks and stuffs it into his mouth. “Why?” he asks around the mouthful. “Did something happen?”

Mother’s shoulders twitch ever so slightly. And then she gives Sasuke an answer that he isn’t at all expecting.

“Yes.”

Sasuke pauses. Looks up. Mother’s pushing the mortar and pestle off to the side, the small bag balancing on the edge of the counter. She doesn’t offer a further explanation.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong._

“What happened?” he presses, almost curious to see if she’ll give him an actual answer.

Mother doesn’t say anything at first. She slips off her apron, undoing the knot at her back and lifting the top strap up and over her head. She folds it slowly, _carefully_ , before sticking it back in one of the kitchen drawers. When she turns to look at him, she has a toneless, sober smile plastered onto her face. The small bag is balancing in the palm of her hand. “We’ll talk about it later, okay?” she promises.

Disappointment claws at him, but Sasuke knows better than to argue. If she doesn’t want to tell him, she won’t, no matter how much he begs her to. So he takes another bite of food. “Okay,” he agrees, even though he knows that _later_ isn’t ever going to come.

Mother deposits the bag into a hidden pocket located on the side of her dress. Then she walks over and gives Sasuke a kiss on the top of his head. “Your father and I probably won’t be back until dinner. Don't get into too much trouble while we’re gone, alright?”

Sasuke pushes the food around his plate, not particularly hungry anymore. “Yeah, alright,” he mumbles. 

“And if Shisui wakes up, would you do me a favor and give that to him?” She points to a large mug tucked into the back corner of the counter. “Tell him to heat it up before he drinks it. It’ll help his throat.”

 _At least it’s not his eyes,_ Sasuke thinks dryly. “I will,” he promises.

“Thank you.” She gives Sasuke another kiss. “I’ll see you when we get back.”

Sasuke just nods, turns his attention back to his half-eaten meal. “See you.” 

Mother’s footsteps are soft as she walks out of the room. He listens to the soft padding of her feet, listens to her pause for a moment in the living room before moving towards the front door again. He can just make out the low, whispered voices of his parents, and then the front door is sliding open, the panels creaking softly. It clicks shut a few seconds later.

And Sasuke is alone.

Except he isn’t alone, not really, since Shisui is asleep in the other room. Which is still, now that he’s thinking about it, weird.

So Sasuke finishes up his breakfast, deposits his plate into the sink, and then heads back into the living room. He glances at the couch, because _looking_ , in his opinion, hardly constitutes as _bothering_ Shisui while he’s sleeping, so he doesn’t think he can reasonably get in any sort of trouble for doing it. The pink blanket has been pulled a bit closer to Shisui’s head — his mother’s doing, Sasuke’s sure — but it still doesn’t look like his cousin has moved at all.

Sasuke stares. And stares. Because something about his cousin is still _off_ , and neither Father nor Mother are here to interrupt him while he tries to figure it out.

It takes Sasuke a moment, but he’s starting to think that his cousin’s positioning is what’s bothering him the most. Anytime Sasuke has caught Shisui asleep, he’s a mess of limbs, his arms and legs splayed in every possible direction. It would look more natural if Shisui had an arm flung above his head, maybe, an ankle hooked around the top of the couch while his other leg hung off the edge of it completely. But, even under the blankets, Sasuke can see that his cousin is curled in on himself now, his knees tucked up to his chest and his face buried in the crook of the cushions. He looks incredibly _small_ , Sasuke realizes, which is a description he doesn’t think he’s ever associated with Shisui before.

The thought sends a prickling wave of discomfort across his skin. _Wrong, wrong, wrong._

A few beats pass as Sasuke keeps watching Shisui. Wondering. Thinking. It crosses his mind that maybe nothing is spectacularly wrong, that maybe he’s standing there worrying for no good reason. Mother did say that the mug is for Shisui’s throat, so maybe he just has a cold? It would explain the blankets and his posture, maybe, his cousin chilled by the sickness and just desperately trying to stay warm. But his mother doesn’t usually take out the pink blanket when one of them gets sick; she uses the gray, fluffy blanket for that, and Sasuke doesn’t see it in the pile —

Shisui jerks under the blankets suddenly, and the sound of a choked gasp reaches Sasuke’s ears just as Shisui flings himself upright. Sasuke feels his entire body freeze, and he watches in mute alarm as his cousin frantically reaches for his chest, clawing at the fabric of his shirt. He’s breathing hard, his eyes wide and unfocused as he stares directly at Sasuke, pressing his palm flat against his body again and again and _again_.

It’s slow, but the panic eventually starts to drain from his face, his breaths evening out as he realizes that whatever he _thinks_ is happening...isn’t. Sasuke feels himself relax a little, and he waits for Shisui to compose himself, to brush off what just happened with a curse and a joke and ask why Sasuke’s standing there, watching him sleep like a creeper.

But Shisui just keeps staring at him, an uncomfortable bleariness glazing his eyes. His hand stays pressed against his chest, right above his heart, and Sasuke sees that his cousin’s fingers are trembling.

Sasuke isn’t entirely sure what to do at that point. Shisui still isn’t saying anything, isn’t even acknowledging the fact that Sasuke’s there. So Sasuke does the only thing he can think of: he turns on his heel, and he walks into the kitchen.

When he comes back, he’s holding the mug.

Shisui is still staring blankly at the area Sasuke had been occupying, but his hand has fallen to his lap. He doesn’t move as Sasuke hesitantly makes his way up to him.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong._

“Mother said to give this to you,” Sasuke mumbles, holding the cup out to Shisui. “She said to heat it up before you drink it. It’s supposed to help your throat.”

Sasuke waits, but Shisui still doesn’t move. He’s almost convinced that his cousin didn’t hear him, that maybe he spoke too quietly to break through whatever stupor Shisui is trapped in. So he opens his mouth, ready to repeat himself.

A full body shiver abruptly racks its way through Shisui’s body, and Sasuke feels himself flinch back at the sudden movement, his teeth _clacking_ together hard and the liquid in the mug nearly spilling as it sloshes against the sides. Shisui stills all at once, and Sasuke’s close enough to his cousin to see that he isn’t breathing, that he’s holding his breath as he stares wide eyed at the nothingness in front of him.

Sasuke counts twenty-one seconds in his head before Shisui suddenly takes in a sharp inhalation of air. He turns towards Sasuke, his neck moving mechanically as he levels his unfocused gaze on him. His pupils are tight, constricted, and a sharp unease shoots straight up Sasuke’s spine at the sight.

He swallows. _Wrong, wrong, wrong._

Shisui flicks his eyes down to the mug, and he pulls in a long, rattling breath. “Thanks,” he rasps. The word is barely audible, though, and Sasuke feels his own throat throb in sympathy at how painfully hoarse Shisui sounds. _Maybe he really is just sick,_ Sasuke thinks, somewhat hopeful.

Shisui takes the mug carefully, his burning fingers brushing against Sasuke’s as he clumsily wraps the mug in his hands. He pulls his knees up to his chest and presses the mug close to his body, his face sober as he bows his head over it and stares forlornly at its blue rim.

A few seconds pass. Steam begins to rise from the mug, thin tendrils that float directly into Shisui’s face. His cousin doesn’t move away from it, though; he just keeps staring down at the liquid, his eyes glassy and vacant.

Sasuke watches Shisui cautiously. He’s beginning to understand why his parents were so insistent about letting Shisui rest — he doesn’t look good, doesn’t _sound_ good at all. And Sasuke can’t help but hope that, maybe if he lets his cousin go back to sleep, he’ll wake up in a few hours and go back to normal, grinning and telling bad jokes and teasing Sasuke relentlessly.

So Sasuke takes a step back and moves to leave the room.

“Wait,” Shisui immediately croaks.

Sasuke glances back at the couch. Despite how oddly his cousin is acting, Sasuke still half expects Shisui to poke fun at him, to throw him a smile and say _“What? Don’t want to spend time with your dear, sick cousin?”_

But Shisui doesn’t have a smile on his face. He isn’t even looking at Sasuke — his shoulders are hunched, his gaze still trained on the mug as he cradles it in his palms. “Don’t leav —” Shisui winces, then, cutting himself off mid-sentence. But he gets enough out that Sasuke still knows exactly what his cousin was going to say.

_Don’t leave._

“Never mind,” Shisui mumbles, clearing his throat with another wince. “Go.”

Sasuke hesitates. Part of him, without a doubt, wants to get out of this room immediately. Because _this is weird. This is really, really weird._

But it’s Shisui, for gods’ sake. He might be acting a bit odd, and he might be freaking Sasuke out a little...

...okay, he might be freaking Sasuke out _a lot_. But it’s still _Shisui_ he’s talking to, the same Shisui that annoys him relentlessly and hides his stuff and steals his food and doesn’t go a single day without finding _something_ to tease him about.

The decision comes easily after that.

Sasuke makes his way over to the chair next to the couch. “I can stay,” he says, and Shisui visibly relaxes as soon as the words leave his mouth.

His cousin gives him a single, jerky nod. “Sorry,” he murmurs, lifting the mug to his lips.

They sit in silence, Sasuke watching quietly as Shisui drinks whatever it is that Mother made for him. Shisui, for his part, doesn’t look at Sasuke, doesn’t try to fill the stuffy air around them with his usual, easy banter. Which is undoubtedly weird, and unusual, and the longer Sasuke sits there, the more convinced he is that his cousin _really_ needs to go back to sleep, or maybe just lie down and rest, because he’s not at all acting like himself and Sasuke would really appreciate it if he could go back to normal now. 

But then everything just gets more bizarre, because Shisui starts laughing.

“Ah, fuck,” his cousin sighs, smiling tiredly down at the mug. His voice sounds a bit better, Sasuke thinks, though it still has a distinct rasp to it. A little ball of relief starts to unfurl inside of Sasuke’s stomach at the improvement, though, and he finds himself almost desperately hoping that the drink is miraculously fixing whatever ailment has befallen Shisui.

But then Shisui is speaking again, and what he says next hardly makes Sasuke feel better about the situation.

“I’m gonna pass out in a minute.”

Sasuke feels his eyes widen. “What?”

Shisui just nods, wiping at the corner of his eye as he continues chuckling under his breath. “Yeah, yeah, this isn’t...this isn’t reacting well with Eri’s vial.” He sighs again, lifts his head to stare blankly at the far side of the room. And then he takes another sip.

Panic starts to build in Sasuke’s throat. He’s about to ask his cousin what he should do, if he wants him to go get his parents over at Minori’s or maybe go tell one of their neighbors and have them bring Shisui to the hospital and, gods be good, why is Shisui still _drinking_ whatever Mother gave him if —

Shisui suddenly squints his eyes, lowering the mug down into his lap. “Is that a chicken?” he wonders.

Sasuke’s thoughts screech to a halt. He hesitantly follows Shisui’s gaze.

There’s no chicken there.

He looks back at his cousin. “What?” he repeats.

“Hm,” Shisui hums, his eyes still trained on the empty space. “Looks like a rooster,” he eventually decides.

 _He’s lost his mind,_ Sasuke realizes. _He’s actually gone insane and —_

Shisui abruptly holds his arm out towards Sasuke, the empty mug in his hand. “Take this,” he requests.

Sasuke blinks. He grabs hold of the mug.

And then Shisui promptly passes out.

**Itachi**

“I heard about Minori,” Hiruzen says. “I know those outside your clan are not meant to pry into these matters, but I wanted to offer my condolences, nonetheless.”

Itachi keeps himself entirely still as he kneels in front of the Hokage and his council. He can’t claim to be surprised that Hiruzen already knows Minori is dead — he’s well aware that the village is surveilling his clan, that ANBU has eyes on them at all hours of the day. _“A precaution,”_ Hiruzen insisted. _“To ease the minds of the councilors.”_ Though he never explicitly said _why_ the councilors’ minds needed to be eased. Not that Itachi really needed him to — he’s no stranger to the tension present between the village and the Uchiha, to the distrust that’s festering there. It’s why he’s here, meeting with the four of them in the first place.

The souring relationship predates his time in ANBU by years. His father thinks it goes back to the Nine-Tails’ attack that occurred nearly eight years ago, the three councilors all but convinced that the Uchiha _must_ have played a role in it. Father claims he’s never been presented with any proof supporting their theory, though, and after almost a year of dealing directly with the council himself, Itachi’s not so sure that they actually have any. He’s come to believe that their mistrust stems not from evidence, but from rumors and hearsay, from tales told far and wide about the _devil clan_ and their _demon eyes_. And while Itachi would like to think the councilors above believing such inane misconceptions about his clan, he’d be lying if he says he doesn’t notice the wary glances they cast him when they think he isn’t paying attention, the way they peer at him from across the room as if they half expect him to start muttering gibberish in an attempt to cast some sort of black magic spell on them.

Itachi hadn’t been too bothered by the treatment, at first. It’s nothing new to him, after all, nothing he doesn’t already experience on a daily basis — he’s used to being regarded cautiously, to being mocked as a crazy religious zealot behind his back. But he had thought that the councilors’ unease around him would start to fade as time passed, that they’d come to realize the rumors claiming the Uchiha to be _demon worshipping hell-spawn_ (as one asshole in his Academy days had kindly phrased it) were unfounded.

But time has passed. And the councilors still trust him about as much as they trust any other Uchiha; which is to say, not very much at all.

And so the councilors’ minds need to be _eased_. Because they’re afraid; they don’t understand what his clan can do, what they’re capable of. Surely they see them and their shrine and their ceremonies and think that it might all just be a case of religious fanaticism — that’s what most end up chalking it up to, anyway. The mad, wayward Uchiha clan, still beholden to the gods of old, unwilling to adapt and change to fit the developing world around them. 

But the councilors have obviously realized that it’s not as simple as that. Whether it was the Nine-Tails’ attack that made them realize it or something else entirely, they can sense that the Uchiha are not average shinobi. That they are capable of something more. Something greater. The councilors may not know exactly what that something is, but they have enough of a sense to be wary of it, to regard the Uchiha and their Sharingan with distrustful reservation.

Gods, if they ever found out what their dojutsu actually does...

_They’d eradicate us._

But they don’t know. Not yet. Not for certain. So they continue to watch them, to keep tabs on them. Trying to unveil the mysteries of a dojutsu they can’t even begin to conceive the power of. It begets a relentless cycle, the village’s distrust breeding contempt within the clan, and the clan’s contempt breeding further distrust from the village. The suspicion increases. And the anger grows.

So, no, Itachi is not shocked that Hiruzen already knows about Minori’s death. He imagines the shrine itself is under constant watch by now — the ANBU on duty probably saw Minori go in when the sun set, and a body bag come out when the sun rose. Most anyone could deduce what happened at that point. Still, Hiruzen knowing about Minori’s fate when Itachi himself only found out a few hours ago manages to unnerve him, all the same. Especially since most of the clan likely doesn’t know the outcome of it yet.

Itachi keeps all that to himself, though. “Thank you, Lord Third,” he says. “The sentiment is appreciated.”

Koharu shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Was the ceremony...nice?” she tries. She glances at Hiruzen and her fellow councilors, then, uncertain. “That’s what it is, correct? A ceremony?”

“I was under the impression that it was more of a procedure,” Homura remarks. “Some sort of process to seal away the Sharingan before the person is put to death.”

 _Put to death._ It’s harsh, and entirely inaccurate, but Itachi doesn’t correct him — clan law forbids him from doing so, from discussing matters of the Sharingan with outsiders. And breaking that particular law _could_ get him put to death.

_...or worse._

He stays quiet.

Koharu tilts her head, considering Homura’s theory. “Do the Uchiha not burn their dead?” she wonders, her eyes briefly flitting towards Itachi. “I don’t quite see the point in sealing away the Sharingan if the body is simply going to be burned, anyway.”

Homura gives Koharu a small shrug, eliciting a poorly concealed scowl from Danzo at the other end of the table. “I think it’s done more for the sake of tradition rather than practicality,” Homura tells her. “The Uchiha are an old, deeply pious clan. We can’t expect to apply reason to everything they do.”

Itachi grinds his teeth to stop himself from responding to the insult, his blood simmering at the implication of Homura’s words. _If only they knew._

“Well,” Koharu turns her gaze back towards Itachi, “regardless of what it is — did she have a peaceful departure, at least?”

Itachi is in the process of consciously unhinging his jaw to tell her that he’s not at liberty to speak about it when Homura interjects. “You forget, Koharu — the Uchiha clan keeps these matters secret even amongst themselves. Itachi likely wasn’t even present for the ceremony.”

“I thought you said it was a procedure,” Koharu points out.

Homura pauses. “Well, I think —”

“I hate to interrupt,” Danzo grinds out, “but I was under the impression that we were here to discuss more _pressing_ matters.” He levels a scornful glare at Itachi, as if somehow he is to blame for Koharu and Homura’s babbling. “The Uchiha clan’s meeting yesterday, for instance.”

Hiruzen shoots Danzo a disapproving glance before turning his attention to Itachi, his lips thinning in displeasure. “Unfortunately, we do have other matters to discuss today,” he tells him. Hiruzen’s face softens, then, and he seems almost regretful when he asks — “Is there anything new to report?”

Something about the way Hiruzen says it, about how delicately he tries to phrase it, ignites a dull hope in Itachi’s chest. Because if the Hokage is willing to see reason, then that means there’s still a chance that a compromise can be reached, that relations can be improved. And that’s enough for Itachi to keep trying.

Itachi shakes his head. “It was an administrative meeting, Lord Third,” he says. “Matters regarding the village weren’t discussed.”

Hiruzen seems to relax in his chair ever so slightly, but Danzo immediately leans forward. “Really?” he drolls, the disbelief in his voice evident. “ _Nothing_ regarding the village was discussed?”

Itachi’s jaw jumps. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” he allows.

Danzo taps his cane against the floor once, twice. “Well, now, _nothing out of the ordinary_ is quite different from _nothing_. Or has no one taught you that distinction?”

“Danzo,” Hiruzen warns, but Itachi is already swallowing his rage, pushing the words out of his mouth before he can convince himself not to.

“My apologies,” he bites out.

Danzo opens his mouth to reply, a self-satisfied smirk already beginning to make its way across his lips, and Itachi feels the chakra throb behind his eyes. _Asshole._

Thank the gods, Hiruzen primly steps in before Danzo can actually get a word out. “What was discussed, Itachi?”

Itachi has to drag his gaze off of Danzo, inch by painful inch. _Breathe._ “The number of missions being tasked to the clan was mentioned,” he says, “as was the number of children accepted into the Academy for the upcoming term.”

“And that was all?” Koharu asks dubiously.

Itachi keeps his face entirely expressionless as he takes another breath. “Yes, that was all.”

Homura taps his foot against the floor. “Remind me — what are your clan’s mission and Academy numbers?”

 _As if you don’t already know._ “The clan had twenty-three missions assigned to it last month, and there are no new Academy admissions.”

“Hm,” Homura places his hands underneath his chin. “And how many Uchiha children are currently enrolled in the Academy?” His words are light, nonchalant, but Itachi can’t help but think he asks the question in a way that suggests there shouldn’t be _any_ Uchiha currently enrolled in the Academy.

 _Breathe._ “One out of ten eligible members,” Itachi answers dutifully, and he tries not to let the resentment show too clearly on his face when he sees the stiff line of Homura’s shoulders relax slightly.

“Ah, yes,” he says. “I sometimes forget you have a brother. Sousuke —”

“Sasuke,” Hiruzen immediately corrects.

“— Sasuke Uchiha.” Homura tilts his head to the side, then. “How old is he now, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Itachi’s skin crawls. _I do mind._ “Seven.”

“He only recently entered the Academy, then,” Homura guesses, though he doesn’t wait for Itachi to either confirm or deny the fact before continuing. “So the Uchiha clan has one Academy student, and was collectively assigned twenty-three missions last month.”

Itachi nods. “Correct.”

“And how would you assess your clan’s feelings towards those statistics?”

 _They’re furious,_ Itachi immediately thinks. _They’re absolutely furious._

“They’re discontent,” he says instead.

Koharu actually has the gall to turn her nose up at that. “For what reason?”

Itachi stares at her, tries to figure out whether she’s doing this for show or if she actually believes it. “The Uchiha have the lowest mission and Academy acceptance rates out of every established clan in the village,” he says carefully.

“Well, we can hardly force people to request missions from the Uchiha,” Koharu argues, peering down the table as if waiting for someone to agree with her. “Few feel comfortable around the Sharingan — it’s not the village’s fault if clients would rather hire someone who does not possess the kekkei genkai. And as for the Academy,” she looks back at Itachi, “there are plenty of other talented children vying for spots. The Uchiha surely can’t expect the village to give them special treatment?”

It’s an effort not to roll his eyes at her, because he’s heard this argument before — it’s the same one the councilors keep recycling, they’re _foolproof_ justification for anything that the Uchiha happen to find objectionable. _The village is hardly responsible_ , _the village can’t be blamed_. When Itachi first began reporting to the Hokage and his councilors, the excuses were at least a bit more varied, a bit more original. They used to regale him with tales of oversights and lost paperwork, of unforeseeable circumstances that somehow managed to cause the biggest mismanagement of personnel in village history. But now, their explanations can all be boiled down to one single, key defense: _it’s the Uchiha’s own fault_.

Itachi is willing to admit that might be true, to an extent. At least as far as missions are concerned, maybe. He’s always been told that the Uchiha clan is built for war, for destruction — they notoriously don’t do well in times of peace, few outside the clan willing to associate themselves with the Sharingan’s so-called _black magic devilry_ unless there’s a large-scale victory at stake. Even Father can admit that direct requests for Uchiha are few and far between when the Leaf isn’t trying to raze a country to the ground.

And yet, Itachi would still like nothing more than to point out to Koharu that missions are not assigned purely on a request-only basis; the village has plenty of say when it comes to designating personnel, could easily shove a few more Uchiha on scouting assignments or scroll deliveries, missions where no one particularly cares _who_ carries them out, so long as the objective is completed successfully. It should be a simple solution; it _feels_ like it should be a simple solution. But he’s been bringing the Hokage and his council complaints about mission totals for weeks, now, and still, nothing changes.

_“To ease the minds of the councilors.”_

The Academy, meanwhile, is a different issue entirely. He’s not convinced Hiruzen knows about that particular scheme, though how the Hokage isn’t suspecting foul play at this point, Itachi isn’t sure. In his defense, though, even Father hadn’t been completely convinced when the issue was first brought to his attention, had thought it was more a matter of parental ego rather than a full-blown conspiracy. The Uchiha, after all, pride themselves on their excellence; no one in the clan wants to admit, wants to even _consider_ , that their own child might just not be good enough for an Academy acceptance. And it wasn’t as if there were _no_ Uchiha in the Academy, Father had argued: Sasuke had been accepted, which seemed to prove that the village was still willing to enroll Uchiha in the program. But the complaints were insistent, and so Itachi was dispatched to find proof one way or the other.

It had been a gods-damned nightmare getting his hands on those files. He’d checked Hiruzen’s office first, then the councilors’ offices, then ANBU headquarters — and there was nothing. He couldn’t find a single record pertaining to Academy admissions. Itachi was nearly ready to accept that there was no hidden scheme to be uncovered, that his clan was merely succumbing to the paranoia brought on by the village’s distrust, when he decided to check one last place: the Academy itself.

The files were tucked away in a basement storage closet, mixed with a heap of other miscellaneous paperwork. He had to parse through thousands of documents before he managed to find the entrance exam results for the most recent class. He nearly missed it entirely, but his eyes caught on a familiar name just before he threw the page to the side: _Sasuke Uchiha_.

Four Uchiha attempted that particular exam. Based on the paper in front of him, all of them passed with a score far above the minimum required for an Academy acceptance. Sasuke didn’t even have the best result.

Father made it explicitly clear to the clan at the next meeting that Itachi hadn’t managed to find anything that proved or disproved their claims.

“They’re discontent, nonetheless,” Itachi repeats.

“And understandably so,” Hiruzen notes before anyone else can offer up an opinion on the matter.

Koharu frowns. “The village cannot be held responsible for the Uchiha clan’s every plight, Hiruzen,” she insists. “With their reputation, it’s a miracle that missions and Academy acceptances are their biggest problem —”

“That’s enough, Koharu,” Hiruzen interrupts, but Koharu is still speaking, looking towards the other councilors for support.

“Are we really going to pretend there aren’t rumors?” she implores. “Of black magic, of controlling demons —” Itachi doesn’t miss that; she might as well have said _causing the Nine-Tails’ attack_ outright “— of necromancy? They’re ridiculous claims, clearly —”

 _Ridiculous claims that you evidently believe,_ Itachi thinks rather bitterly.

“— but the Uchiha have also not made any effort to defend themselves against them.” She levels her gaze back at Itachi, then, her disgust barely concealed. “And the village will not be held responsible for circumstances the Uchiha clan has created for itself.”

Itachi feels his Sharingan flare as Hiruzen repeats himself — “ _Enough_ ” — and he ducks his head before anyone in the room can get a decent look at it. Because he can’t seem angry, can’t seem like he’s affected by their words at all. There’s enough strife as is; no one needs him adding to it.

 _Breathe,_ he tells himself. _Calm down and breathe._

“She has a point, Hiruzen,” Homura interjects, and the words feel like acid being injected straight into Itachi’s veins. “The village can only do so much to support the Uchiha. If they’re discontent with people being cautious of them, perhaps they should make an effort to explain —”

Itachi’s Sharingan throbs. _Explain what?_ he wants to snarl. _Our faith? The secrets of our dojutsu? Want me to draw you a diagram of the gods-damned Sharingan so you can try and properly_ understand _it —_

A sharp pressure suddenly builds at the back of his skull, and Itachi feels himself freeze, his eyes widening as he stares at the floor. Because he knows what the presence of a god feels like, is as familiar with it as he is with his own heart beating in his chest. And there is, undoubtedly, a god here now.

The only problem is that he didn’t call upon one.

The Hokage and the councilors prattle on, completely oblivious to what Itachi is experiencing. They go round and round in circles regarding what the Uchiha should and shouldn’t be expected to do regarding their dojutsu — Itachi tries to pay attention to their conversation, knows it’s what he’s been tasked there to do. He hears someone mention the Hyuga as a comparable to the _Uchiha problem_ , to which someone else replies that _the Byakugan is nothing like the Sharingan_ , to which someone _else_ agrees that the Hyuga hardly have the same issues as the Uchiha do. Itachi loses the conversation completely at that point, though, too focused on the presence burrowing itself into the back of his head.

 _But I didn’t call down a god,_ he thinks, the unease caused by that fact siphoning through his bones. Channeling a god is a very conscious act — it doesn’t happen accidentally, doesn’t occur without the person doing it being explicitly aware of what’s happening.

And yet a god is here. And Itachi did not call it. 

Itachi feels the presence press against his mind, crawl along the pathways leading to his eyes. Probing. Experimental. His curiosity gets the better of him and he tries to grasp at it, but the presence evades him, flitting back and away. But it doesn’t leave.

Itachi takes a breath. _Who are you?_ he silently asks.

 _Not yet,_ an echo tells him. _Not yet._

And then the pressure is gone. 

“You can’t truly expect the Uchiha to reveal the secrets of their kekkei genkai, Homura,” Danzo sighs. “They barely explain it to members of their own clan.”

Itachi feels like he’s being burned from the inside out as he forces himself to deactivate his Sharingan, to look up and pay attention. But his hands are shaking, and a muted panic is beginning to build in the back of his throat, because gods do not just _show up_ — a person has to call them, to _entreat_ them. But he did not beseech this god; he did nothing to invoke its presence, to bring it across from the spiritual realm and into himself. It came of its own volition. Willingly. And without his consent.

_I-ta-chi._

His blood feels like it’s calcifying in his veins. _It was the same deity,_ he thinks, and though he has no proof supporting the claim, he knows without a doubt that it’s true, can feel the certainty of it in the deepest depths of his body.

Itachi digs his fingers hard into the fabric of his pants. _Later,_ he tells himself. He can’t do anything about it right now, so he needs to worry about it _later_.

“Then they can’t complain when people want nothing to do with it,” Homura replies easily, and even in his daze, Itachi can tell that the words are aimed at him more so than Danzo.

Itachi concentrates on the sentence with a sharp intensity, making an effort to summon up the anger that the words would have naturally caused him at any other time. He uses Homura’s outward antagonism to ground himself, to pull himself back to what’s happening _here_ and _now_. Because the councilors are terrified of his clan, and he needs them not to be, needs them to realize that there’s nothing to be afraid of. The Uchiha may commune with gods, may have access to a realm that no one else does, but they’re not _dangerous_. And they’re hardly a threat to the Leaf.

_Not yet. Not yet._

Gods, what does that even _mean_?

Itachi bites at the inside of his cheek. _Later._

Hiruzen’s fingers start tapping dully against the table, then, and Itachi immediately latches onto the sound. He tries to figure out the rhythm of it, focuses on the way the nail of Hiruzen’s index finger scrapes against the hard wood on every third beat. Because he needs to focus right now. Itachi is the only thing preventing an all out war between the Uchiha and the Leaf at this point — he can’t risk fucking up with Father again, can’t risk him removing Itachi from his position because he thinks he can’t _handle_ it. So he needs to focus on this meeting, and he needs to worry about whatever the hell just happened with the deity _later_.

Hiruzen looks over at Itachi, and Itachi forces himself to meet his gaze unflinchingly. _Later._ “Is your father still willing to meet?” Hiruzen asks.

Itachi nods immediately. _Later, later, later._ “Yes, Lord Third.”

Danzo’s leer helps ground Itachi even further. “I hardly think another meeting is going to help,” he mutters. “It is evident that the Uchiha clan wants a war with the Leaf — there’s no use wasting any more of our time trying to reason with them. Action must be taken.”

 _Later, la —_ Itachi’s thoughts come to a screeching halt, his mantra snagging on Danzo’s words and shattering entirely. A wholly new layer of alarm glosses across his muscles, and it soaks into them deeply.

Itachi meets Danzo’s gaze, and the belligerence he sees there makes his stomach churn. _You don’t need to be afraid of us,_ he wants to say. _We’re not dangerous, and we’re not going to betray the Leaf._

_Not yet. Not yet._

He digs his fingers harder into his pants, scraping the skin underneath. “My father doesn’t want a war.”

Danzo raises an eyebrow. “And if your clan demands one?” he asks. “What will he do then?”

Itachi doesn’t answer immediately, caught somewhere between his fear — _not fear,_ he thinks. _I’m not afraid, because there’s nothing to be afraid of_ — the _novelty_ , then, of his divine encounter, and his apprehension at the direction this meeting is now going in. And the entire situation is only worsened by the fact that he knows Danzo isn’t even entirely wrong to question his assertion. Itachi is very aware of what his father will do, of what he _intends_ to do, if enough members of the clan insist that action be taken.

“My father doesn’t want a war,” Itachi eventually repeats. But the conviction behind his words is gone.

“None of us want a war,” Hiruzen agrees, cutting in before Danzo can respond. “The Leaf will take any and every course of action to ensure it does not come to that.”

Itachi doesn’t miss Danzo’s scowl, nor Homura and Koharu’s dissatisfied grunts. But none of them offer an argument.

_Not yet. Not yet._

Hiruzen nods towards Itachi, pointedly ignoring his councilors as he gives him a kind smile. “I’ll be glad to meet with your father again. If he accepts my invitation, of course,” he tells him.

Itachi takes a small breath. This is good news. Very good news. It means there’s another chance for an agreement to be reached, for the tension between the village and his clan to be wiped away completely. And it means Hiruzen isn’t willing to entertain Danzo’s calls for a more drastic solution.

_Not yet. Not yet._

Itachi feels no relief. 

He nods stiffly anyway, bowing his head. “Thank you, Lord Third.” Because it’s good news. It’s _good news_ , and he should be thrilled that he’s going to be able to go home and report the development to Father.

But he can feel the councilors’ dissatisfaction at Hiruzen’s decision spreading across the room, and it rests thickly across Itachi’s shoulder blades. He tries his best to ignore it. They’ll see that the Uchiha aren’t a threat eventually, that they aren’t dangerous and that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

_Not yet._

They will.

“If that’s all, then.” Hiruzen looks down the table, sees if any of the councilors have anything more they’d like to add.

They stay quiet.

Hiruzen levels his gaze back on Itachi. “You’re dismissed, Itachi.”

 _Not yet._ Itachi rises slowly to his feet.

He leaves.

**Shisui**

When Shisui wakes up, he finds a green dinosaur perched on his chest.

It takes him awhile to notice it. Whatever was in Mikoto’s drink obviously hadn’t mixed well with what Fugaku gave him earlier — his mind is foggy from the effects of the cocktail, his eyes bleary from the heavy sleep it threw him into. It’s an effort to peel his eyelids open at all, really, and he doesn’t even bother making the effort at first. He lies there on the couch instead, idly hoping that, if he just waits long enough, he’ll manage to slip right back into oblivion’s warm embrace.

But he doesn’t go to sleep. He _can’t_ go to sleep. No matter how hard he tries, he isn’t able to staunch the creeping awareness crawling through his body, prickling at his mind and forcing him _awake, awake, awake_. Which should send a surge of panic through him, he thinks, because it means the drugs are wearing off. And if the drugs are wearing off, then that means he’s going to be able to think. And if he’s able to think, then that means there’s nothing stopping his mind from going back to the shrine, from standing behind Minori and shoving the katana through her body again and again and _again_ —

But he isn’t panicking. Not at all, actually. Enough of his haze remains that it really only manages to register as a vague disappointment.

So he takes a breath and opens his eyes, stares dimly at the ceiling as he comes to terms with his fate. It’s the inevitable conclusion of his high, he knows, this slow, painful march back to sobriety. Trying to avoid it is an effort in futility — his grief and agony will catch up to him eventually. It _always_ catches up to him eventually. Fugaku and Mikoto don’t give him this shit as a _cure_ , after all; they do it to tide him over, to get him through those first few hours when he can barely conceive of what he’s done, when he can’t breathe past the gaping hole in his chest and it feels like his entire body is just seconds away from shattering.

Suou doesn’t approve. He’s made it clear that he’d rather let Shisui scream in the shrine for hours, for days, for _weeks_ , rather than give him something to numb his horror.

 _“The short-term relief isn’t worth it, child,”_ Suou told him once, years and years ago. _“These substances are addictive. I don’t want you learning to rely on them, especially given what happened to your father —”_

 _“Please,”_ Shisui had gasped, tear-stricken. _“Just for today. Please, I just need it for —”_

 _“And when is the next time you’ll_ just need it _, Shisui?”_ Suou had asked, not unkindly. _“How long until you start taking it when there’s no enucleation, when you use it simply because you enjoy the feeling of being numb?”_ Suou shook his head. _“I’m sorry, child. I will willingly give you every remedy I know of to help your eyes, but I can’t in good conscience give you anything for this sort of pain. The only thing I can offer you is the promise that time will heal even this wound.”_

Shisui had begged, pleaded as if his very life depended on it. _“You don’t understand. I_ need _it, Suou. I can’t — I can’t keep doing this. I’m not going to survive if I keep doing this. It’s going to kill me —_ it’s going to kill me _.”_ But still, Suou wouldn’t budge.

Fugaku had to practically drag him out of the shrine that time. His uncle ended up carrying him back to his house, bypassing Shisui’s apartment completely. Shisui could do little more than sob on the way there. _I don’t want to do this anymore. Please don’t ask me to do this anymore._

Mikoto was waiting for them by the front door. Fugaku handed Shisui off to her without a word, and then he was turning on his heel and walking right back down the street. 

Nearly an hour passed before his uncle came back. Mikoto had moved Shisui to the couch by then, was holding him and murmuring softly as he wept. Shisui didn’t even realize Fugaku had returned at first, not until the man put a hand on his shoulder and presented him with a small vial.

 _“It’ll help,”_ Fugaku had told him.

The liquid in the vial was an unnaturally bright blue. It wasn’t one of Suou’s, clearly, but Shisui could hardly see past his own misery to bother asking Fugaku where he’d gotten it from. He took it silently, wrapping it in his shaking, snot covered fingers. Mikoto had to get the top off for him, but he managed to tip it down his throat without any help.

It only took a few minutes for a delightful calm to flood every inch of his body. His breathing began to even out, the agony fueling its way through his organs starting to subside. And then something absolutely miraculous happened: he fell asleep.

The drug eventually wore off, of course. He woke up a few hours later with that terrible emptiness still in his veins and the agonizing knowledge that his hands were covered in the blood of his clansman. He was miserable, the shame of it all eating its way through his bones. But he didn’t feel like he was about to fall apart anymore, didn’t feel like he’d crack right open if he so much as moved the wrong way.

Neither Fugaku nor Mikoto were willing to give him another dose. _“One vial is more than enough,”_ Mikoto had decided, leveling Fugaku with a stern glare that promised retribution if he tried to give Shisui anything else. _“I’ll make you a drink instead.”_

Shisui hadn’t argued. He still doesn’t argue, Mikoto instituting the same rule every time: he gets one vial, and that’s it. No exceptions.

 _“I’m not saying that I don’t think it helps, Fugaku. But Suou’s not wrong about those drugs being dangerous,”_ he’d heard Mikoto murmur to her husband once, the two of them either thinking he was asleep at the time or believing he wouldn’t remember overhearing their conversation even if he wasn’t.

Fugaku’s response was too low for him to hear. _“I_ know _Eri’s are more diluted,”_ Mikoto had replied, frustration seeping into her voice. _“But gods, after what happened to your brother...”_ She broke off, then. _“No. He gets one vial, and that’s it.”_ And, like Suou, she hasn’t budged.

Which is fine, Shisui figures. One vial is all he needs — time will heal the rest of him, surely, just like Suou said. It’s just those first few hours he needs help getting through. That’s it. And then he’s fine.

Though, the vial his uncle had procured this morning had hardly been much help, if he’s being completely honest.

_“Eri didn’t have the usual, today,”_ Fugaku said, sounding almost apologetic when he handed Shisui the dark, murky concoction. _“She gave me this instead, said it does practically the same thing.”_

Shisui didn’t think twice before taking it and throwing it down his throat. Eri’s remedies were hardly on par with Suou’s, but her products were consistent. And if she said this vial would put him to sleep, then he trusted it to put him to fucking sleep.

And it did. Almost immediately. The only issue was that, while the drug knocked him out, it didn’t plunge him into the unconscious void he so craved. No, his subconscious had been more than free to run amuck under this drug’s influence. And _gods_ , was it terrible. His mind summoned terrible visions of Minori and the shrine, of the faceless idol and his bloody, _bloody_ hands and he was screaming, screaming as he tried to free himself from the fucking hellscape of his mind. But the drug kept him locked there, firmly in its grasp. And he was trapped.

Shisui woke up an eternity later with fire in his veins, his body shrouded in gold, and a katana lodged through his heart. He’d only been able to form one coherent thought: _never again. I’m never taking that shit ever again._

Though, he supposes that some good did come from it, since Mikoto evidently didn’t know that Fugaku gave him a different vial. His uncle probably hadn’t thought it important to mention, taking Eri’s claim that _it does practically the same thing_ to mean that it practically _was_ the same thing. Mikoto will be livid if (or when, really) she finds out — she’s not classically trained like Eri or divinely trained like Suou, but she knows enough about drugs and medicines to know how not to mix the wrong ones together. Mikoto is typically very vigilant with all that, after all: the herbal remedies she plies him with after his chemical slumbers are always blended carefully, his aunt attentive to the ratios and the amounts and scrupulous in her assessment of how it will all react to what he already has in his system. She certainly didn’t intend for him to pass out a second time — Shisui knows that without a doubt. Really, he assumes this was just a case of them all falling victim to their own habits: Shisui typically always takes the same vial, and Mikoto typically always makes him the same drink afterwards. She likely hadn’t even thought to ask if Eri’s vile was any different, because why would it be?

Regardless of what actually caused the mishap, though, Shisui finds himself undoubtedly grateful for it. The sleep the mixture had plunged him into had been satisfyingly dreamless, and he fucking needed that after the hell the first vial had inflicted.

There’s still a leftover hint of airiness in his limbs from the drugs now, his mind hovering in an indeterminable space above his skull. He doesn’t feel _good_ , by any means, but he doesn’t feel all that bad yet, either. That will come in an hour or two, surely, and then he’ll have to slog through the rest of the day and then the rest of the week and then the rest of the month, trying to ignore how decidedly awful he feels. But, for now, he doesn’t feel bad. And that’s worth something, he supposes.

Though, for brief moment — just a second, really, making it more of a passing fancy than an actual, full-fledged thought — he considers calling out to someone. He’d force a groan through his abused throat and ask if they’d be at all willing to give him something else. Not a lot; he doesn’t need it to put him back to sleep. Just a bit of something, maybe, enough to keep his agony and grief at bay. Because he doesn’t feel bad. And it would be great if that feeling could last, just for a little while longer. 

_“I don’t want you learning to rely on them.”_

Shisui pauses, the dull desire for _more_ still fluttering around his mind. He’s not _relying_ on the drugs. Not really. Right? This isn’t _reliance_ ; he’d be relying on them if he couldn’t function without them, if he needed them to get him through the day. And he doesn’t. He doesn’t! It’s just...it would just be _nice_ if...

Shisui takes a breath. And he keeps his mouth shut. _You don’t need it,_ he tells himself. _One vial. That’s enough._ And he tries to make himself believe it.

So he lies there. Listening to the silence around him. And it occurs to him that calling out to someone might’ve been futile in the first place, because the house is decidedly quiet. Not that the house isn’t usually quiet. But there’s typically some sort of whir to be heard, a washing machine or a dish washer, and Sasuke’s usually puttering around somewhere, and —

Shisui sighs and makes a valiant effort to lift his neck up off the pillow, to look around the room and see if he’s actually as alone as he feels.

And that’s when he sees the dinosaur.

He freezes, blinking down at it. _Oh,_ he thinks dimly. _When did that get here?_

A vague memory of a rooster suddenly skips across his mind, and he finds himself starting to frown. _Fuck, this is another hallucination, isn’t it?_ The dinosaur’s going to move, or blink, or ask him what the fuck he’s staring at, and then he’s going to have to either pretend like he doesn’t hear it or risk feeing insane when he actually gives it an answer.

(He’s going to answer it. He’s undoubtedly going to answer it.)

Shisui waits, bracing himself. But the dinosaur doesn’t move, or talk, or do anything. It just sits, peering at him with its beady eyes as it gives him a large, toothy smile. So Shisui, very reasonably, lifts up a hand, and he pokes it.

It’s completely solid.

He lets out a small sigh of relief. _Not a hallucination, then._ Which leaves one single, very obvious question.

Why the fuck is there a dinosaur on his chest?

Shisui stares at it, his perplexity growing by the second. Because there’s something decidedly...familiar about the dinosaur. He’s definitely seen it before, but he can’t exactly place —

His eyes widen. _Holy shit,_ he marvels, beginning to smile despite himself. He blames the drugs for his inability to figure it out sooner — the sludge crowding his mind must have clouded that particular part of his memory, blurring it so he had to fight his way to get there.

Because, gods, how could he forget _Spike_?

Shisui ghosts a hand over the matted plush, rubs a nail across the worn spot beneath the dinosaur’s face. “What are you doing here?” he mumbles, the nostalgia thickening his throat.

Spike, thank the gods, doesn’t actually answer him. 

Shisui feels his smile grow. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s actually laid eyes on the stuffed plushie. Sasuke claimed to have outgrown him years ago, locking him in the depths of his toy trunk where no one could see him. Shisui had actually been a bit sad to watch the stuffed animal get pushed aside, to watch Sasuke trade its fluffy comfort in favor of blunt training knives and stars. Logically, he knew that Sasuke wasn’t going to carry the dinosaur around forever. But he just thought Spike might stick around for a bit...longer.

Not that Shisui ever really dealt with Spike himself. No, no, Shisui had learned early on not to fuck with the dinosaur. He’d made the mistake of hiding him on Sasuke once, stuffing him behind a pillow cushion when Sasuke left the room. He’d intended on making a stupid joke out of it, trying to convince his little cousin that _“he just got up and walked away!”_ when the three-year old came back.

What he didn’t expect was the immediate waterworks when Sasuke realized the dinosaur was gone. The kid was absolutely despondent, and Shisui couldn’t have pulled that dinosaur out from behind the pillow any faster if he’d tried.

Shisui didn’t dare fuck with Spike after that. Gods, he’s even antsy holding him now, and he’s barely touching the damn dinosaur.

He can hear Itachi making fun of him for it already — “you know it doesn’t bite, right?”

Shisui snorts. His cousin can be such an asshole sometimes.

_..._

_...wait._

Shisui turns his head and sees Itachi standing in the doorway. Itachi only raises an eyebrow in response, motioning towards Shisui and Spike. “Having fun?” he drolls.

Immediate relief courses through Shisui’s body. _Not alone._

“Not particularly,” he admits. He gives Spike a little pat on the head. “I made a friend, though.”

Itachi tilts his head to the side, considering Spike with a small, melancholy smile. “It’s been awhile since Sasuke pulled that out.”

“A few years, at least,” Shisui agrees. He pinches one of the dinosaur’s spikes in between his fingers, worrying at the fabric. “Nice surprise, though.”

When Shisui glances back at Itachi, he’s surprised to see that his cousin’s smile is entirely gone. He looks undeniably uneasy now, staring somberly at Spike as he mindlessly runs a nail along the seam of his pants.

Shisui’s next thought blares like a foghorn through his skull, cutting straight through the murk: _something’s wrong_.

“You okay?” Shisui asks.

“Hm,” Itachi hums, noncommittal. He glances around the room, then, his finger stilling. “Where’s Sasuke?”

Shisui’s still a bit out of it, he knows, but he hardly needs to be at his best in order to tell when Itachi’s trying to avoid a question. He humors his cousin, though, because, now that he thinks about it, he actually isn’t completely sure where Sasuke is either.

He frowns slightly, reaching back into the muddy parts of his memory in an effort to extract any information whatsoever regarding Sasuke’s whereabouts. “I think he was...sitting on the chair?” Shisui says eventually, unsure. He cranes his neck back, trying to see if he can catch sight of his little cousin behind him, and it occurs to him a second too late that if Sasuke was still there, Itachi wouldn’t be asking him the question in the first place.

Shisui slumps back against the pillows. He feels like he should be thoroughly embarrassed at the mistake, but the sensation is slow to move through his veins.

“I might’ve hallucinated that,” he admits nevertheless.

“You might’ve,” Itachi agrees, though the joke falls flat.

Shisui peers back over at Itachi. His cousin isn’t looking at him; he’s staring blankly at the floor instead.

“Hey.” Itachi glances up at him. “What’s wrong?” Shisui asks.

Itachi shrugs a shoulder.

Shisui stares at Itachi, squinting as if that might help him figure out what Itachi’s not telling him. _Fuck._ He’s forgetting something, isn’t he? There was something Shisui was supposed to do, or help with, or —

“Oh shit,” Shisui groans, realization dawning on him. He rubs a hand over his face. _I’m a fucking moron._ “I said we’d deal with the Reikai today, and —”

“Don’t worry about it,” Itachi interrupts. He’s started rubbing at the seam again, Shisui realizes, and he’s looking back down at the floor. “I get it.”

Shame immediately pools in Shisui’s gut, and he has to swallow past the cotton in his mouth. “Your mom told you?”

Itachi nods. “Yeah.”

Shisui looks back down at Spike. He takes a breath.

_“One vial is more than enough.”_

“Are we dangerous?” Itachi suddenly asks.

Shisui’s attention is immediately pulled from the wanting burrowing itself in his chest. He stares at his cousin, a frown beginning to make its way across his face. “What?”

Itachi doesn’t look at him. “Are we dangerous?” he repeats.

“Like...us? Personally?” The frown is firmly in place, now, his mind struggling to figure out what Itachi is getting at. He’s not sure if he’s being dense or if it’s just the drugs, but the answer seems...sort of obvious, especially given the fact that they’re shinobi and quite literally trained to kill.

Itachi shakes his head, though. “The clan,” he clarifies. “Is the clan dangerous?”

Shisui stares at his cousin. It feels like the same question. They’re a clan of shinobi — of course they’re dangerous.

But that can’t be what Itachi’s asking. There’s something else, something that his cousin is dancing around. And while Shisui would typically be able to figure out what that something is without asking Itachi outright, he finds himself frustratingly unfit to currently do so.

So he does. Ask, that is.

“I’m too stoned to figure out what you’re trying to ask me,” he admits, the corner of his lip quirking up as he tries to ease his cousin’s apprehension. “You’re gonna need to help me out a bit here.”

Itachi doesn’t laugh, though, doesn’t even crack a smile. He doesn’t even seem to be listening to Shisui, actually, his eyes unfocused as his nail scratches relentlessly along the seam of his pants.

“Itachi?” Shisui tries.

Itachi says nothing for another moment, but then he starts blinking, shaking his head softly. “Sorry,” he says, glancing up at Shisui. He takes a step back, and Shisui realizes that Itachi fully intends on leaving the room. “We can talk about it later. You should rest.”

 _Shit._ He’ll be damned if Itachi walks out of this room without telling him what’s bothering him. Shisui searches through his memory, frantically trying to figure out what might’ve happened to make Itachi so uneasy. But he’s struggling to remember anything, to figure out what might have occurred between now and when Shisui had last seen him.

 _Fuck._ There’s something else he’s forgetting. There’s definitely something else he’s forgetting. What the fuck had they last talked about?

_“I’ll swing by your house tomorrow morning, alright?”_

_“I have an ANBU briefing first thing.”_

_“I have an ANBU briefing...”_

_ANBU briefing._

“Was it the meeting?” Shisui guesses, praying that he actually got it right.

Itachi pauses, a hand on the doorframe.

Shisui lets out a small, relieved breath. _Nailed it._ “I take it it didn’t go well, then,” he surmises, making an effort to keep his tone light.

“It went fine,” Itachi says unenthusiastically, not looking back at Shisui. “The Hokage is willing to meet with my father again.”

“That’s...good, though,” Shisui points out. “That’s really good, Itachi.”

There’s not even a hint of hesitancy in Itachi’s answer. “I know.”

Shisui tilts his head to the side, considering Itachi from across the room. “So what’s wrong?”

Itachi takes a breath, and he taps a finger on the doorframe. He looks like he’s considering whether or not he wants to give Shisui an answer, and Shisui finds himself struggling not to press Itachi for the information, to urge him to just spit it the fuck out before Shisui’s imagination comes up with something far worse than what’s actually happening.

He stays silent instead. And he waits.

“Do you think the village will ever trust us?” Itachi eventually asks.

Shisui lets out a long, quiet exhale. _So that’s it._ He idly wonders how long this has been bothering Itachi, whether it’s a recent development or something Itachi has already spent hours upon hours mulling over himself. It’s a natural concern, he supposes — Itachi is practically the liaison between the clan and the village at this point. If anyone’s going to be overly invested in the village’s opinion of the clan, it’s him.

That being said, Shisui knows the answer he’s supposed to give, the one that Itachi wants to hear. That everything will be fine, that it’s only a matter of time until the village learns to trust them.

But he doesn’t really believe that. And he knows that Itachi won’t, either.

So Shisui answers honestly. “I don’t know.”

Itachi nods, evidently unsurprised by Shisui’s response. “Do you think they should?”

Shisui purses his lips, looks back down at Spike. That’s certainly a more...complicated question. Not that Shisui doesn’t know his answer; he has it immediately, doesn’t even need to think twice about it. But he doesn’t want to just give Itachi a one-word response, either. He needs Itachi to know _why_ , to realize the magnitude of what they’re dealing with. Though he’s not sure how he’s going to do that without revealing secrets that Itachi isn’t permitted to know.

It takes him a moment, but he eventually settles on how he wants to answer the question. “You know the gods’ tablet? Underneath the shrine?” he says.

Itachi raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“How much of it can your Sharingan read?”

Itachi frowns. By the look on his face, he clearly doesn’t understand what this has to do with his question. He’s evidently willing to humor Shisui, though, because it doesn’t take him long to provide an answer. “About a quarter.”

Shisui nods, rubbing a nail across one of Spike’s eyes. “I can read a little more than half of it with the Mangekyou. Suou says that’s the farthest anyone ever gets, though. According to him, not even Madara Uchiha could read the whole thing.” Shisui pauses suddenly, stopping himself before he goes off on a tangent. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts, to figure out how he wants to phrase this last part so he doesn’t end up lost in the midst of it.

Itachi’s still frowning when Shisui eventually looks up and meets his gaze, and Shisui realizes that Itachi actually looks... _desperate_ , desperate for Shisui to tell him something that will ease his mind. The sudden vulnerability catches Shisui off guard, and an overwhelming urge to drop the conversation entirely sweeps over him like a tidal wave. He could brush it off easily, he thinks, laughing as he says that he isn’t sure where he was going with that particular train of thought. He’ll blame it on the drugs, or the stress, and then he’ll tell Itachi to stop worrying so much, will tell him that everything’s going to be fine and that he just needs to relax.

But Shisui also knows that Itachi deserves to hear the truth — he deserves to know _why_. And who the fuck else in this clan is going to tell him?

So Shisui takes a breath. And he does.

“I hope none of us ever find out what the last half of that tablet says,” he admits quietly, the hoarseness of his voice harsh in the stillness surrounding them. “I don’t care if it gets lost or destroyed or if it just disappears in the middle of the gods-damned night. Whatever has to happen, just so long as it’s gone before we ever figure out how to read the rest of it.”

It doesn’t take long for a heavy understanding to settle deep in the depths of Itachi’s eyes. Itachi sighs, bites at the inside of his cheek. “There’s going to be a war with the village, isn’t there?” he mumbles.

Shisui squeezes Spike’s arm. “I’d like it if there wasn’t.”

He hears Itachi take a shallow breath, and Shisui winces slightly. He can see Itachi’s next question coming from miles away, but part of him still hopes that Itachi won’t actually ask it.

Itachi does, of course. “Do you think we can stop it?”

Shisui forces himself to nod immediately. He keeps his eyes trained on Spike, the dinosaur’s little green hand pinched between Shisui’s index finger and his thumb. “Yeah,” he lies. “I do.”

The real answer, meanwhile, dies stagnant on his tongue. _I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know._

Shisui’s spared from hearing Itachi’s response, at least. Because that’s when the front door opens.


	6. He’s Fine

**Sasuke**

There’s a small, considerate frown on Eri’s face as she peers down at the piece of paper pinched between her pink lacquered fingers. “And this was all Mikoto put in the drink?” she asks, glancing up at Father for confirmation.

Father nods. He has a hand on Sasuke’s shoulder, and he’s exerting just enough pressure on it to make the sensation incredibly uncomfortable. He’d placed it there shortly after they arrived at Eri’s house, a silent order for Sasuke to explain Shisui’s condition after Eri opened the door and asked what happened.

 _“I was hoping you might be able to tell me whether he’s in any danger from it,”_ Father had said once Sasuke finished his stuttering, mumbled explanation, unbelievably calm as he handed Eri a piece of paper with the ingredients of Mother’s drink written on it in a messy scrawl.

Eri had taken it wordlessly, her brows knitting together as she looked down to consider the list. Then she frowned, and it was at that point that Father’s grip tightened around Sasuke’s shoulder like a vise, his fingers biting into the soft skin around Sasuke’s collarbone. It hurts, and Sasuke wants to tell his father to _please_ let go, but he can’t at all force himself to speak through the fear that’s thickening in his mouth. Because the look on Eri’s face isn’t _good_ and, gods, maybe he was too late, maybe Shisui’s already dead on the couch, his body cold and stiff because Sasuke didn’t get help fast enough and his cousin is dead, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s _dead_ —

“Hm.” Eri tilts her head to the side, biting at her lip. Sasuke’s heart is thundering against his chest, practically trying to force itself straight through his ribs, and he can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs and gods, why isn’t she _saying_ anything?

But then Eri lifts her shoulder in a small, creaking shrug, and Sasuke feels the entire world slam to a halt around him. _This is it,_ he thinks numbly, fuzziness creeping around the edges of his vision. _This is when she says that Shisui’s already dead._

Eri holds the paper back out to Father. “He’ll be fine.”

Sasuke feels himself stumble, tipping back as the relief punches straight through his body. The only thing that keeps him upright is his Father’s hand on his shoulder. 

“You’re sure?” Father asks, his fingers still digging hard into Sasuke’s skin.

Eri nods, and the relief flooding through Sasuke _thrums_. “Absolutely. It’ll have him on his a —” She briefly glances down at Sasuke. “— butt,” she quickly corrects with an abashed little smile, obviously unaware that Sasuke hears far worse out of Shisui’s mouth on a daily basis. “It’ll have him on his _butt_ for a few hours, but it’s not dangerous.”

Sasuke hears an audible sigh leave his father’s mouth, and the muscles in his arm are left tingling as Father finally removes his hand from his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Father says, a hint of an apology in his voice as he takes the paper back from Eri.

Eri makes a short, dismissive noise, brushing him off with a quick flick of her wrist. Her hand is so thin that Sasuke can practically hear the bones in her fingers _clack_ together with the motion. “Please, it’s no problem. I’m just sorry to hear that anything happened in the first place.”

Father doesn’t respond to that as he puts the paper back in his pocket. If Eri’s perturbed by the silence, she doesn’t show it, though, instead choosing to level her gaze on Sasuke. The wrinkles around her eyes are pronounced as she smiles down at him. “Good work getting your parents, Sasuke. That was some quick thinking.”

Sasuke feels himself flush at the compliment, and he shifts his weight awkwardly between his legs. In all actuality, it took him far too long to find his parents. And that was after he’d already wasted a good chunk of time checking to see if his neighbors were home (they weren’t), and then waiting by the front door, desperately hoping that Itachi would miraculously show up at first, and then eventually just hoping that _any_ person capable of helping would show up. It had felt productive at the time, especially since he made sure to check on Shisui every few minutes to make sure he hadn’t suddenly stopped breathing.

The entire charade ended up unraveling, however, when Sasuke jabbed his toe into the leg of the table on his way back to the door. He’d ended up on the floor, cradling his foot and trying not to cry about the current state of his life because, gods be good, Shisui was on the couch, probably _dying_ , and Sasuke was wasting the precious little time Shisui had left watching an empty street and hoping someone would magically show up and save them both.

At that point, Sasuke knew he had to get help himself. So he did: he pushed himself up to his feet, shuffled over to Shisui so he could hold a hand under his nose to make sure there was still air coming out of it, and then left the house to find his parents.

...and then immediately turned around and walked back inside.

Logically, he knew he was being stupid and wasting even _more_ time that Shisui didn’t necessarily have. But the guilt in his bones was surely going to slow him down if he didn’t do something about it. Shisui had asked him not to leave, after all — he asked him _not to leave_ , and while Sasuke knew he had to for his cousin’s own well-being, he still didn’t want to abandon Shisui completely. So he let the guilt tug him down the hall to his room and straight to the trunk resting at the foot of his bed.

Spike had been right on top when Sasuke lifted up the lid because, despite Sasuke’s claims that he was far too old for stuffed animals, he still couldn’t bear to let the green dinosaur suffocate under the weight of his other toys. So he plucked Spike out, tucked him under his arm, and tried not to enjoy holding the stuffed animal too much as he made his way back to the couch. And then he promptly deposited him on Shisui’s chest.

Was it stupid? Maybe. But it made Sasuke feel a bit better, and he hoped it would make Shisui feel a bit better, too, if Shisui miraculously woke up and realized Sasuke was no longer there.

That was when Sasuke finally left the house to find his parents. Almost an hour after Shisui had first passed out. Which was horrendous, in hindsight, and not the result of quick-thinking in the slightest. Not to mention that the situation only got worse, because Sasuke proceeded to waste another hour trying to find his parents (though really any adult would have done at that point) because he didn’t know where Minori’s house was and the streets were empty and all of the shops were closed and gods, of _course_ the compound was a ghost town right when Sasuke actually needed someone.

He ended up going to the shrine, hoping that maybe Suou was milling around outside or that he’d get lucky and manage to catch someone walking in or out of the building. Neither ended up happening, but stopping by the shrine had still ended up being a good choice on his part because he’d seen two — _two_ — people there. 

The first wasn’t helpful at all. The person was at the tree-line, an orange mask obscuring their face as they hid in the shadows. Sasuke realized that they were probably ANBU, and he knew that he probably shouldn’t bother them in case they were doing something important, but he was also terribly desperate at that point. So he’d started towards them, frantic pleas for help tearing themselves from his mouth. But the ANBU didn’t move. They just stood there, _ignoring_ him as if he wasn’t even there and they couldn’t hear him yelling and _begging_ —

Then the person was suddenly gone. Vanished. And Sasuke was left nearly choking on the air around him, hurt and confused and petrified that he’d just ruined his one and only chance to get Shisui help.

And that’s when the second person showed up.

The woman, whose name Sasuke learned was Amari, apparently heard his cries from the street below and had come up to see what all the fuss was about. After Sasuke tried to explain what had happened, only truly managing to get the words _parents_ and _Minori’s house_ out through his blubbering, she’d kindly offered to take Sasuke there.

And so, two hours and many tears later, Sasuke managed to get to his parents.

So, no, it wasn’t quick-thinking on his part. It was really rather slow thinking, in his opinion, and had there _actually_ been something wrong with Shisui, Sasuke’s almost certain that his cousin would’ve died as a result of Sasuke’s very poor reaction to the situation.

But Sasuke’s not going to mention all of that to Eri. Especially not with his father right next to him. So he shuffles his feet and keeps his eyes downcast, managing to get out a small and mildly embarrassed, “thank you, ma’am.”

Eri just chuckles. “Really, I don’t know why I expected anything else. I’m sure you’re just as smart as your brother, aren’t you?”

Sasuke hesitates, then gives Eri a careful shrug. Because he’s not as smart as Itachi, not even close. But it also hurts to admit that out loud.

The hand suddenly descends back on his shoulder, and a dull ache ripples underneath his skin as his father firmly grabs hold of the abused joint. “He’s top of his class at the Academy,” Father informs Eri, and Sasuke thinks — he _thinks_ — he actually hears an undercurrent of pride in his father’s voice.

The thought sends a flood of heat straight to Sasuke’s cheeks, eclipsing the discomfort in his shoulder entirely.

“Are you, now?” Eri says, peering down at him. “You planning on being an early graduate, too?”

 _Gods_ , Sasuke wants nothing more. He knows he isn’t good enough to graduate as early as Itachi, but if he could leave the Academy even a _year_ earlier...

He starts to nod, the beginnings of a smile on his lips as he prepares to tell Eri how hard he’s working to graduate early just like Itachi, but his father cuts him off before he even gets a word out.

“No,” he says, and it’s like a needle driving straight through Sasuke’s chest, the joy that had been building there wheezing out of him like air from a broken balloon. “Mikoto and I want to keep him enrolled for the full term.”

Eri nods, as if that’s completely reasonable. _But it isn’t,_ Sasuke thinks, gobsmacked. It isn’t _reasonable_ or _fair_ at all.

“I don’t blame you,” Eri says. “There’s no reason to rush him through like Itachi.”

Sasuke’s mouth tastes bitter. He knows he’s only just entered the Academy, but _gods_ , if at some point the instructors think he can graduate early, why wouldn’t his parents want him to? Why, why, _why_ , especially when they let _Itachi_ do it?

 _Because they know he’s better than you,_ a small voice whispers in the back of his head. _They know he’s better than you, and more talented, and far more capable of being a ninja than you’ll ever be._

Sasuke’s eyes start to sting, and he bites down hard on his lip.

Father pats Sasuke’s shoulder. “There’s no rush,” he agrees. The shame burns at him, and Sasuke suddenly wants nothing more than to just go home.

But Eri isn’t done with him yet, evidently, because after a moment of quiet consideration, she’s talking to him once again. “Tell me something, Sasuke: do you have any interest in medicine?”

Even in the face of his hurt and disappointment, he finds himself frowning at her question, his nose scrunching in an unintentional show of displeasure and mild petulance. “No,” he mutters, because he _doesn’t_ have an interest in medicine, and it doesn’t occur to him at that exact moment to pretend like he does for Eri’s sake. But his parents have always been sticklers for manners, and even though he’s upset and maybe about to cry, he realizes a second after the word leaves his mouth that such an answer probably seems incredibly rude.

He tries to lessen the severity of the statement with a small shrug and a mumbled, “but I don’t really know much about it.”

Eri smiles. “Feel free to stop by the shop some time, I can show you around. Who knows, you might even end up wanting to be an apothecary by the end of the day.”

Sasuke doubts that very, very much. He’s going to be a _shinobi_ , like his brother and Shisui. _Even if Father doesn’t think I’m good enough to be one._

Eri gives him a shrug, then, and Sasuke realizes the uncertainty must show clearly on his face. “No pressure,” she assures him. “Just think about it.”

A moment passes, and then Sasuke gives her a small nod, hoping that his easy acquiescence will put an end to the conversation. “Okay.” Another moment goes by before he remembers his manners. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, kiddo.” Eri gives him a wink before turning her attention back to Father. “Now, enough loitering on my porch — you two better get back to Mikoto so you can tell her that Shisui’s going to be fine.” She gives Father a knowing look. “Your wife has a heart of gold, Fugaku, but I imagine she’s damn near smothering that poor boy right now.”

The hand on Sasuke’s shoulder starts to tug him gently backwards, and Sasuke lets his father guide him down and away from Eri’s front door. “Thank you again,” Father says in farewell.

She gives him a warm, kind smile. “Anytime — you know that.”

The walk back to the house is uncomfortable. Tense, even, despite the fact that Shisui’s impending death is no longer hanging over them. Sasuke figures he’s mostly to blame for it, because his father’s words are still eating at his insides and marinating his organs. For a moment, he’d thought that his father was actually proud of him, that he’d actually taken notice of his accomplishments and thought them _praiseworthy_. But Sasuke should’ve known better — he might be top of his class, might even be the best student currently enrolled in the Academy. But he is not, and never will be, Itachi.

Sasuke doesn’t think he can feel any worse at that moment. But, somehow, his Father manages to make it happen.

“You could be an apothecary,” Father suddenly says, the words stiff and stilted. “If you wanted.”

The unspoken words are like barbs against Sasuke’s skin: _because you’re not good enough to be a shinobi, and you should probably think about doing something else._

Humiliation gnaws at Sasuke’s face, and he ducks his head before his father can see that he’s about to cry. “I don’t want to be an apothecary,” he mumbles.

Father doesn’t immediately answer. “That’s fine,” he eventually says, and it’s such a terribly neutral response that Sasuke feels himself practically wither in the presence of it.

The rest of the walk is spent in silence, and Sasuke’s still in a rather bad mood when they finally get home. He rigidly slips his shoes off before padding into the house, wanting nothing more than to curl up underneath his covers and imagine what it would be like to live in a world where his father is actually proud of him.

 _No,_ he suddenly thinks, stopping in his tracks. _I should get Spike first, before Father sees him and has even more reason to be disappointed in me._

Spurred into motion, Sasuke doubles back down the hall and darts into the front room. Father’s still by the door, and Sasuke thinks he might just have enough time to grab Spike off of Shisui’s chest and hide him away before Father comes inside and —

But Sasuke freezes as soon as he enters the room, any immediate concerns about Spike and his father’s opinion of him dissolving into thin air.

_Gods be good._

Shisui blinks tired gray eyes at him. Piles of pillows surround him on the couch, and his body is hunched underneath the weight of the blankets wrapped around his shoulders. There’s a mug in his hands, a thermometer sticking out of his mouth, and though Sasuke knows Eri already said Shisui was going to be fine, he can’t even begin to describe how relieved he feels at actually _seeing_ his cousin awake.

Though Shisui does, admittedly, look utterly distraught at the moment.

Shisui sniffs, the thermometer _clacking_ lightly against his teeth. “Please tell me you’ve brought your father home with you,” his cousin mutters, his words slurring around the glass tube, and he sounds so ill-tempered and exasperated when he says it that Sasuke nearly cries in relief. It’s such a fantastic departure from the monotonic droll of that morning and _gods_ he’s actually better, Shisui’s _actually better_.

Shisui frowns when Sasuke doesn’t immediately answer. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, the thermometer bobbing. “And what’s with the creepy smile?”

Sasuke wasn’t even aware he’d started grinning. He shakes his head, biting at the inside of his cheek in a vain attempt to rein in his glee. “It’s nothing.”

Shisui looks blatantly unconvinced. “Sure,” he says, reaching a hand up to mindlessly fumble with the thermometer. “Because that’s not weird at all.”

 _Weird._ As if Shisui can possibly talk about _weird_ after everything he’d done that morning.

“Seriously, though,” his cousin says, “is your father home? Because your mother’s killing me.” He motions vaguely towards himself, encompassing the blankets and the pillows and the thermometer and the mug and a pair of fuzzy socks that Sasuke hadn’t initially realized his cousin was wearing. “ _Killing_ me.”

A sudden urge to laugh grips at Sasuke — he knows Shisui isn’t, in fact, dying now, and seeing him so distressed at his mother’s overbearing brand of love feels, dare he say it, amazingly normal.

 _Shisui’s better; he’s really, really better_.

The hysterics never even make it up his throat, though, because Shisui’s gaze suddenly darts up to the space above Sasuke’s head. And Sasuke realizes his father is directly behind him.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Shisui breathes, just as a panicked chill makes its way through Sasuke’s body.

 _Spike,_ he remembers suddenly. _I didn’t get Spike._

Sasuke’s gaze desperately darts around the room, looking for any sign of the green dinosaur. His eyes roll over pillows, blankets, chairs, the table, the floor — _everything_. But Spike is nowhere to be found.

The tightness in his chest loosens, ever so slightly. _Maybe Mother put him away?_ he thinks, though it feels almost too good to be true. But it must be what happened — Spike isn’t in the room, and he’d left him right there on Shisui’s chest. _Right there_ for everyone to see, like an idiot.

 _Gods. I’m so stupid._ This is probably why Father thinks he’ll make a poor shinobi, because he makes bad decisions and acts like a child.

 _But at least Father doesn’t know about Spike,_ he thinks, rather gratefully. That’s something, at least.

Shisui starts to move, and Sasuke’s attention is momentarily pulled from his inner spiral. His cousin’s eyes are comically wide as he leans forward, grabbing the thermometer out from between his lips with poorly concealed desperation. “Can you _please_ tell Auntie that I’m not dying?” he begs Father. “She won’t listen to me, even though I keep telling her that —”

There’s a bang in the kitchen, and Shisui actually _yelps_ before shoving the thermometer into his mouth and shrinking back against the couch. Mother comes into the room a second later, the ruffles of her dress a whirl around her legs. She levels a near frantic gaze at Father. “What did Eri say?” she demands. “Do we need to give him anything? Take him to the hospital —”

“I’m fine, Auntie,” Shisui tries, but Mother immediately rounds on him, jabbing a finger in his direction.

“ _Hush_ ,” she orders. Shisui shifts against the cushions uncomfortably, muttering something under his breath, but Mother ignores him in favor of nailing Father back against the wall with her eyes. “Well?” she urges.

Father moves around Sasuke easily, and he takes a few careful steps into the room towards Mother. “She said he’s going to be fine,” he tells her, his voice low and soothing. “No harm done.”

Shisui flings an arm into the air, throwing his head back against the cushions. “ _Thank you._ ”

Mother doesn’t seem entirely convinced, though. “You’re positive?” she asks. “She looked at all of the ingredients, and she’s _sure_ that —”

Father closes the distance between them. “She’s sure,” he promises her.

Mother takes a deep, tremulous breath, nodding once. Then twice. She stands there for a moment, suspended in the space left behind by Father’s words, and Sasuke wonders whether she’s going to reach out to him like she did that morning, whether she’s going to take hold of his hands and press them against her chest or throw her arms around his neck and bury her face in his shoulder.

He feels himself jump when Mother rears back and smacks Father right on the chest, instead.

“I swear, Fugaku,” she seethes. None of them have time to react before Mother’s furiously grabbing Father’s hand, practically dragging him into the kitchen. Though she does momentarily pause her tirade to turn around and point a finger at a very wide-eyed Sasuke. “Stay here and make sure Shisui doesn’t move,” she orders. Then she turns to Shisui. “And you finish that drink.”

Shisui’s jaw drops, the thermometer falling straight into his lap. “But Eri said I’m —”

“ _Finish it,_ ” Mother snaps. And then she disappears into the kitchen with Father, who doesn’t resist her pull in the slightest.

When Shisui looks back at Sasuke, he’s very nearly pouting. “I’m starting to think that all of the gods combined couldn’t save me from your mother,” he grumbles. The annoyance in his voice is apparent, but Sasuke catches a glimmer of a smile on Shisui’s lips as he plucks the thermometer out of his lap and deposits it safely onto the table.

Sasuke feels like he should be a bit more unnerved by Mother’s outburst, and there’s still a good amount of shame percolating in his veins from everything that happened with Father earlier, but Sasuke honestly can’t help but be anything other than happy at that moment because he’s looking at Shisui and _he’s really better. He’s actually, really better._ The warmth of the thought blooms across his body, a comforting, reassuring presence, and it nearly drowns him from the inside out when Shisui looks back up at him with bright, _bright_ eyes.

Shisui kicks a few of the pillows down to the ground. “Come here, twerp,” he says, patting the empty space next to him. “Take a seat.”

Sasuke doesn’t hesitate to walk over and plop himself right down next to his cousin. He pulls his legs up to his chest, burrowing back against the pillows still on the couch, and he’s positive that this is the happiest he’s felt all day.

Shisui grins at him. “Want a blanket? I have, like, twenty more than I actually need.”

Sasuke considers the offer. His feet are a bit cold, now that he’s thinking about it, and a blanket might actually be nice. He opens his mouth to answer, but the only thing that comes out is a surprised squawk because Shisui swings out an arm and flips the entire heap directly on top of him.

The blankets are unbelievably hot and heavy, and it’s a struggle for Sasuke to get them off. It takes him a few seconds, his limbs flailing in every direction, but he eventually manages to claw his way back to open air. “ _Hey_ ,” he complains as soon as his head and arms are free. He tries to shoot Shisui a glare, but he has a feeling he doesn’t quite manage it.

Shisui’s leaning back and snickering at him, completely blanket-less now. He takes a sip of his drink before making a sound at the back of his throat, pointing down to his feet. “You want the socks, too?”

Sasuke scrunches his nose. He starts to say _no_ , of course he doesn’t want Shisui’s disgusting, sweaty socks, but a grin erupts across his mouth instead because Shisui’s already flinging them at his face.

“ _No_ ,” he protests, but it’s hardly convincing given how hard he’s laughing.

“Oh! Here — take this, too.” Shisui throws the rest of the drink down his throat in one large gulp, wiping at the back of his mouth as he shoves the empty mug into Sasuke’s hands. Cramps flower along Sasuke’s sides, and he can do little more than wheeze as Shisui presses his fingers around the warmed ceramic.

His cousin leans back to admire his handiwork at that point, tilting his head to the side and considering him carefully. Sasuke manages to calm down a bit, though there’s still an enormous smile on his face as he awaits his cousin’s judgement.

Shisui’s eyes suddenly light up. “Wait, wait, one more thing.” He twists and reaches behind one of the pillows.

When he turns back around, he has Spike in his hands.

Shisui leans over, biting his tongue in a show of intense concentration as he balances Spike on top of Sasuke’s head. Another manic, overjoyed burst of laughter threatens to bubble up and out of Sasuke’s throat, and he nearly chews through his lip trying to contain it, focusing all of his efforts on keeping very, very still so he doesn’t ruin Shisui’s newest endeavor.

“There,” Shisui says, satisfied once the dinosaur is finally in place. There’s a happy smile on his face as he crosses his legs and sits back against the arm of the couch. “Now you look comfy.”

Sasuke can’t hold back a giggle, and he feels Spike wobble precariously. He must look absolutely ridiculous, drowning under a pile of pillows and blankets and fuzzy socks with a mug in his hands and an old green dinosaur perched on his head. But it doesn’t even occur to him to be embarrassed because Shisui is grinning and laughing and happiness is oozing out of every pore of Sasuke’s body.

Gods. Nothing could ruin this moment. Absolutely nothing.

**Itachi**

There is going to be a war.

There is going to be a war.

There. Is. Going. To. Be. A. War.

And what is Itachi doing?

Well.

Itachi’s getting takeout.

He repositions the bag of food cradled in his arm, the paper warm against his skin. The sensation should be comforting, should be _soothing_ , but it’s igniting a blaze up the entirety of the limb, setting fire to every cell there until his veins _ache_ from it. It’s infuriating — _maddening_ , even. His entire world is on the brink of collapse, and he’s picking up dinner. _Dinner_. As if he doesn’t have a gods-damned _war_ to prevent.

His fingers have taken up a steady rhythm near the bottom of the bag, picking at the paper’s puckered corner. Logically, he knows he should stop before he inevitably makes a hole large enough for the food to fall out of, but he can’t — he doesn’t _want_ to, because the painful twitch of his tendons and the steady _rip_ of the paper is grounding him and keeping him from falling apart entirely. Because there’s going to be a war. There’s going to be a war, and he’s picking up _food_.

 _And what would you be doing otherwise?_ a dry voice asks, somewhere far in the back of his head. _Sitting in a corner, driving yourself insane while you obsessively go over every possible way this meeting with Hiruzen could go wrong? Trying to figure out what your excuse will be once it_ does _go wrong, how you’ll go about trying to stop the councilors from convincing Hiruzen that the Uchiha are a lost cause, that your clan doesn’t deserve another chance? All while you beg Father not to take very real, very_ permanent _action against the village? Is that what you’d rather be doing?_

...yes, actually. That’s exactly what he’d rather be doing.

But he’s not. No — instead, he’s using the very limited, precious time he has playing delivery boy.

Itachi takes a breath; this is just the beginning of a very long, downward spiral. He knows it’s in his best interest to get a handle on it early, to put a stop to this particular series of thoughts before it consumes him entirely. So he takes another breath. And then another. Letting the air coil in his lungs, slow and tight.

 _Focus on that,_ he tells himself. Air. _Air._ He devotes all of his attention to the feeling of it inside his body, how it presses against his lungs, how it burns and burns and _burns_ the longer he holds it there. _Focus on that. Just focus on that._

When his lungs finally feel like they’re about to burst, he relents and releases the air in one long, thin exhalation. It smooths past the top of the bag, makes it crinkle lightly, and for one small, fleeting moment, it harmonizes beautifully with the quiet of the compound, melding with his footsteps and the wind chimes for the span of a mere measure. And he breathes. He just breathes — in and out, in and out.

 _Everything is fine,_ he thinks. Because it _is_. There’s not currently a war; gods, nothing bad is even currently happening. Itachi is doing everything right — he met with the Hokage and his councilors, did what he could to diffuse the situation, and now Hiruzen is willing to meet with Father again. All Itachi has to do now is report the development to his father tonight once he comes home, a conversation that will surely go smoothly because his father doesn’t want a war.

So everything is fine. Everything. Is. Fine.

Danzo’s words echo hollowly through his skull, and Itachi feels a bit more of the bag tear underneath his nail. _“It is evident that the Uchiha clan wants a war with the Leaf — there’s no use wasting any more of our time trying to reason with them. Action must be taken.”_

 _No,_ he tells himself sternly, taking another series of breaths. _In. Out. In. Out._ It doesn’t matter what Danzo says, because Danzo isn’t Hokage. He’s a damn councilor, and while Hiruzen is evidently willing to take his opinions into consideration, he isn’t willing to listen to him about this. Not yet.

_Not yet._

The entire corner of the bag tears open, and Itachi finds himself fumbling and cursing as he closes his hand around it in a desperate attempt to stop the food from falling out. Because, shit. He also has the deity to worry about. Which might, now that he’s thinking about it, be a mildly more pressing issue.

...or a much more pressing issue, actually.

Itachi tilts the bag in his arms, leans it so the contents aren’t pressing any weight against the gaping hole that’s now at the bottom of it. He sighs.

_In._

_Out._

_In._

_Out._

_Okay. First things first._ No more picking at the bag. He’s only a few blocks away from his house; surely he can keep his hands still for that long.

Secondly: he needs to spend five minutes — just _five minutes_ — not worrying about the impending conflict between his clan and the village. He met with the Hokage, gave his report, and later tonight he’ll tell Father how it went. In the meantime, Itachi can’t do anything else to help the situation. So he needs to fucking _relax_ before he actually gives himself that aneurysm Shisui is always going on about.

Lastly: the deity.

There’s metal in his mouth, and Itachi realizes he’s practically bitten through the side of his cheek. He winces, the taste of it collecting on his tongue. _Shit._

He doesn’t break stride as he leans to the side and spits a gob of blood down onto the ground. And then he starts gnawing at his lip instead.

The deity. The deity, the deity, the deity.

_I-ta-chi._

There’s a phantom pressure at the back of his skull, a memory of the deity’s presence, and every nerve in his body thrums with electricity. It shouldn’t be possible — _it shouldn’t be possible_. Gods need to be called, _summoned_. They don’t — they _can’t_ just —

But this deity did. This deity _can_. First it kept him locked in the Reikai, and now it’s proven powerful enough to pull itself down into his consciousness, to root itself there without his permission. And that should be absolutely terrifying.

_...should be._

The reasonable part of his brain, the part that holds a modicum of self-preservation, knows that it’s in his best interest to be afraid. It knows that this situation is very, very bad, and that he needs to utilize the utmost caution when dealing with it. He should be telling Shisui every single development, should let his father know what happened at the shrine and at the meeting, and should probably be considering getting Suou involved. That would be the smart thing to do, because Itachi, admittedly, is not equipped to deal with this alone.

And yet he’d be lying if he said that isn’t exactly what he’s planning on doing.

 _That’s fucking idiotic,_ a voice that sounds suspiciously like Shisui whispers. _That’s insanely, ridiculously,_ astoundingly _idiotic, and you’re a fucking moron for even considering it._

Itachi digs his teeth hard into his bottom lip. He _knows_ it’s stupid, knows he’d be out of his mind to try and deal with something like this by himself.

But he’s tempted. Undeniably tempted. Because he also knows that’s the only way he’s going to get any real answers.

 _You’re a fucking moron,_ the voice repeats.

Itachi scoffs at it. _Well, what the hell else am I supposed to do?_ No one will help him with this deity if they find out what it’s capable of. Gods, even Shisui would turn on him; his cousin might’ve been willing to help him when he thought the deity was confined to the Reikai, but if Itachi were to tell him that it can summon itself within his consciousness...hell, Shisui would personally deliver him to Suou, would probably manage to convince the man to do something drastic to make sure the deity couldn’t reach him. And Itachi can’t have that — he can’t, because he needs to know _why_. Why him, and why now? What could a god — a greater deity, no less — _possibly_ want from a mere mortal?

The questions burn at him, make his blood simmer. He needs to know. He _needs_ to. And the part of his brain, the part that’s drowning in curiosity and intrigue, is willing to do anything to get those answers.

So he needs to keep this to himself. He’ll let Shisui keep thinking that the deity has only ever contacted him inside the Reikai, and he won’t mention anything about it to anyone else. And he’ll get his answers. He just needs to be patient, and wait.

The next thought occurs naturally: _but why wait?_

Impermissibly, a slow burn of chakra begins to collect behind his eyes. A strange giddiness creeps across his chest as the chakra pulses, his body almost tempting him, _encouraging_ him, to let his Sharingan wheel to life. Because why _should_ he wait? He can find out everything right now, can get all of the answers he needs. It would be easy; so, _so_ easy. The deity had come to him of its own accord before, after all. Perhaps it’ll show up again if he just gives it the opportunity.

Itachi’s lightheaded. His eyes are prickling with energy and anticipation, and he knows without a doubt that his irises are _just_ on the verge of bleeding red. And he wants to let them. He _desperately_ wants to let them, to commune with this deity again and find out _more_.

_Who are you? What do you want? Why me? Why me, why me, why me?_

“Hey — hey!” Itachi jerks as a hand lands on his arm, the chakra behind his eyes dissipating in an instant. A haggard breath is crushed from his lungs, and his eyes are narrowed — _accusing_ — when he looks up at the person responsible for interrupting him.

Uncle Teyaki just gives him a grin. “Came awful close to dropping your dinner there, eh?”

Teyaki’s calluses scrape against his skin, and the pure physicality of the sensation douses the mania running rampant through his bloodstream. Itachi blinks, and he peers over the side of the bag to see Teyaki’s large hand holding up the bottom of it. The entire edge is ripped to shreds.

Itachi hadn’t even realized he’d started picking at it again.

Haltingly, he brings his free arm down around the bottom, replacing Teyaki’s hand with it. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

“No problem.” Teyaki gives him a wink and a hearty pat on the shoulder. “Try and get that home in one piece now, yeah?”

Itachi just nods as Teyaki moves past him, still stunned by how out of it he’d been.

Gods. He’s losing his shit, isn’t he?

Itachi sighs, and then he keeps walking.

“Hey.” Itachi looks over his shoulder, sees Teyaki looking back at him. “You didn’t happen to hear anything about Minori, did you?”

_Minori._

Itachi presses his lips together. And that’s enough of an answer for Teyaki.

His uncle nods. “That’s a shame,” he sighs, turning back around. “That’s a real shame.”

Itachi watches his uncle’s slow retreat. His throat is thick, and he has to dig his fingers into the bag to stop them from shaking.

_Minori. Enucleation._

And the severity of what he was about to do crashes into him tenfold.

 _Told you,_ the Shisui-esque voice chides. _Fucking dumbass._

The alarm startles his legs into motion, back towards his house. Forget the deity; he needs to get home. _Now._ Before he ends up doing something he regrets.

 _You won’t regret it,_ a small echo assures him. _You can handle it._

 _No._ Itachi doesn’t stop walking. He would regret it; he would undoubtedly regret it. Minori aside, what happened with the goddess on his last mission should be enough to convince him that purposefully letting this deity into his mind and body would be a spectacularly awful idea. He’d nearly crippled himself, for the love of the gods, and that goddess wasn’t even half — wasn’t even a _quarter_ — as powerful as this current deity is. So he needs to be careful. He needs to be _fucking careful_.

 _But you can handle it,_ the echo insists.

“No,” Itachi growls under his breath, trying to fight against the desire wrenching its way through his bones. He’s not going to be a fucking moron. He’s _not going to be a fucking moron_. He’s going to be smart about this. And the smart thing to do is to restrict his dealings with this deity to the Reikai. With Shisui at his back, he’ll at least have some measure of control, some way to escape the deity’s grasp if he needs to. In the meantime, he shouldn’t activate his Sharingan. At all.

Itachi pauses, a hand on the door of his house, and swallows hard.

No using his Sharingan.

Itachi takes a breath. Then another.

 _I can do that._ He can definitely, probably do that. Definitely. It’ll only be a for a short while, after all, just until he can get to the Reikai with Shisui. He’ll talk with the deity, find out what it wants, and that will (hopefully) be that. And if it’s not, then he’ll go to Suou, and he’ll ask for help.

...though he already has a feeling that he won’t at all like the solution the man comes up with.

Itachi sweeps the thought aside. He can’t worry about that now; what matters is that he has a plan. So everything is fine. It’s absolutely fine. He just needs to be patient, and wait.

His nail bites at the wooden frame. The curiosity throbs in his chest, presses painfully against his ribs. _But you don’t have to wait,_ it whispers. _You can find out more right now._ And it would be easy — so, _so_ easy. All he has to do is activate his Sharingan —

Itachi throws open the door and stalks into the house, crushing the bag of food a bit harder against his chest. _No._ No Sharingan. No deity. Save it for the Reikai. It’s easy — completely doable. All he needs to do is ignore the yearning scraping its way through every inch of his body.

He toes off his shoes and pads down the hallway, making his way to the kitchen. And he ignores it. He fucking ignores it.

 _Even though it would be_ so easy _to just —_

“ _Itachi!_ ”

The bag nearly slips from his arms, and for an awful, terrible moment, Itachi can’t breathe. _That’s not possible,_ he thinks, eyes wide. _My Sharingan isn’t active. The deity shouldn’t be able to reach me._

But it also shouldn’t have been able to keep him locked in the Reikai. Or pull itself down into his mind.

The realization is mind numbing. _This deity is going to kill me._ It’s just playing with him, toying with him, waiting for the perfect moment to —

The voice repeats itself, more insistent, more distressed: “Itachi!”

His subconscious catches on the tenor of the voice, on the tone of it. Itachi frowns, the vise across his chest starting to loosen. Because the voice isn’t...it’s not coming from inside his head. It’s coming from the front room.

He takes a step back down the hall, then another, until he’s craning his neck around the doorway he’d walked right past.

Sasuke’s sitting on the couch, scowling. “Tell Shisui to get off!” his brother groans. He pushes indignantly at Shisui’s feet, which are only inches away from his face. Shisui, meanwhile, is chuckling as he lets Sasuke knock his legs down. His heels barely touch the ground, though, before he places them back on top of his blanket-clad brother, stretching so he can wiggle his toes directly in Sasuke’s face.

Itachi can do little more than blink as Shisui tilts his head to the side and gives him a cheeky smile, ignoring Sasuke entirely as the boy tries to knock his legs down again. “Took you long enough,” Shisui complains, though his tone is teasing. “Thought you got lost there for a second.”

Itachi’s lips part, but absolutely nothing comes out. His nerves are still vibrating, the food still warm in his arms. And that’s when he suddenly becomes very aware of the soft, mumbled voices coming from the kitchen.

His brain jumps tracks entirely, all but slamming a door shut in the face of the deity. _War,_ he remembers.

“Is Father home?” he asks, making his way towards the voices.

There’s movement on the couch, and he imagines Shisui’s lifting himself up. “Yeah. But hey, maybe you should —”

Itachi doesn’t hear the rest, because he’s already in the kitchen.

Father and Mother are off in the corner of the room, their heads bowed. Mother’s back is to him, so he can’t see her face, but her shoulders are tense, strained. Father, meanwhile, is the picture of stoicism. He has his arms crossed, and is listening to Mother with a patient, steady concentration.

Or he is until he realizes Itachi is there, at least.

Whether Father heard the conversation with Sasuke and Shisui or is simply attuned enough to sense someone else now in the room seems relatively inconsequential: he glances up, either way, and his attention immediately hones in on Itachi.

Itachi’s mouth goes dry. _War._

Mother turns around at that point, her brows knit together. She doesn’t look surprised to see him — she shouldn’t, given the fact that she’s the one that sent him out to get dinner in the first place — but her face tightens as soon as she lays eyes on him, her lips pinching and her jaw clenching. And Itachi, not for the first time, wonders if he looks as unhinged as he feels.

He lifts the bag slightly and manages to choke out a single word: “Food.”

The sound of his voice snaps Mother into motion. Her face softens as she strides across the kitchen towards him, a small, artificial smile beginning to appear on her lips. “Thank you, dear.”

“There’s a hole,” he mumbles as she takes hold of the bag, tilting it so she can see where he’d been gripping the ends of the paper together.

Her smile falters and she gets that pinched look on her face again, but she doesn’t offer any sort of comment as she carefully takes the broken bag and walks it over to the counter.

Itachi wipes at his arms as soon as the bag is out of his hands, the warmth from it still radiating off his skin. But he feels Father watching him from the corner of the room and he forces himself to stop, forces his hands down to rest at his sides.

_War._

Itachi takes a breath, readying the request on his tongue — _can we talk?_ — but Father beats him to it. He tilts his head towards the hallway, a silent order for Itachi to follow him.

Somehow, without even looking over her shoulder at them, Mother seems to know what’s going on. “Can’t that wait until after dinner?” she sighs.

“It’ll only take five minutes,” Father assures her, already walking away. Itachi ignores the guilt flickering in his stomach as he follows him, and he tries not to focus on how it flares when he hears Mother let out another drawn out sigh before he leaves the room.

But he has a war to stop. Dinner can certainly wait a few minutes for that.

Father doesn’t turn to face him until they’re a short ways down the hall — far enough to be out of earshot, but not far enough to make Mother too uncomfortable.

 _This will be quick, then,_ Itachi thinks, somewhat surprised by the fact that Father hadn’t been lying when he’d said _five minutes_.

Father glances over Itachi’s shoulder, probably to make sure no one’s coming down the hall after them, and then looks down at Itachi. “How’d it go?”

 _Breathe._ Itachi shrugs. “Fine.” He waits a beat. “The Hokage said he’s willing to meet with you again.”

Father _hums_ , and Itachi tries not to feel too unnerved by how apathetic a response that is. “Did Hiruzen say when the meeting would be?”

Itachi shakes his head. _He doesn’t want a war._ “I’m assuming he’ll send an ANBU with a formal invitation in the next few days.”

Father nods, crosses his arms over his chest. He stays silent, though his gaze doesn’t stray from Itachi. And so Itachi waits — waits for his father to prompt him for more information, to ask whether Hiruzen offered to meet or if Itachi pushed for it, to ask how the councilors reacted to the decision. Anything, really. But Father doesn’t. He just keeps staring at him.

Itachi is about to remind Father that Mother is waiting for them, because surely that will put an end to whatever... _this_ is. But, of course, Father decides to speak just as he’s in the process of opening his mouth.

“If you were in my position,” Father begins, “what would you do?”

Itachi keeps himself entirely still. “About what?” he asks, as if he doesn’t already know what Father’s referring to.

“About the meeting,” Father clarifies. “Would you accept Hiruzen’s invitation?”

It takes him a moment, but he eventually comes to understand what’s happening. _A test,_ he realizes. _He wants to know how I’d reason through it. If I’d do what he’s planning on doing._

The question being posed is easy, all things considered — Itachi knows exactly what he would do. There’s no doubt in his mind, actually. Yet it takes him a moment to summon the answer up his throat and lay it flat along his tongue, to release it into the air for Father to hear.

“I’d accept it, yes,” he eventually says.

“Why?”

 _Because I don’t want a war with the village._ But again, Itachi finds himself hesitating. “If the Hokage’s still willing to listen to us, perhaps a compromise can be reached.”

“A compromise,” Father says, almost testing the word. “And what would such a compromise entail, in your opinion?”

 _In your opinion._ There’s a correct answer to this though, he knows. He’s supposed to say that he’d demand the Uchiha’s position in the village be bolstered — he’d accept nothing less, in fact. The police force would be a decent place to start: their authority would need to return to what it was prior to the Nine-Tails’ attack, before that pesky series of orders were signed limiting their jurisdiction. The issue of missions and Academy acceptances would also need to be resolved, of course. And, as a show of good faith, a few shinobi promotions are certainly in order, as well — plenty of qualified Uchiha have been stuck at chunin status for years, and there are a few shinobi in the clan who would undoubtedly be well-suited for ANBU.

And what would he offer in return? Well, he’d be willing to keep the Uchiha compound at the outskirts of the village, for one. And, though the Hokage wouldn’t know about it, he’d keep the rest of the clan in line, would put an end to the larger conspiracy meant to put the Uchiha in power within the village. Because, really, it’s the least he can do if Hiruzen is willing to work with them.

That’s what he’s supposed to say, at least; that would be considered an _acceptable_ answer. But Itachi also knows it would be a lie. He wouldn’t ask, wouldn’t _demand_ , any of that. If he was in his father’s position, he’d gladly take anything the Hokage was willing to offer him, anything that he could possibly use to convince the clan to stand down. Because he doesn’t want a war. He _doesn’t want a war._

But that’s not what Father wants to hear. He wants to hear that Itachi would be willing to wage one, if it was best for the clan.

Itachi lets out a soft exhalation. He settles on something neutral: “it depends.”

Father raises an eyebrow. “On?”

 _On how much the Hokage is willing to give._ “On what the clan is willing to accept.”

Father frowns, ever so slightly. His lips part, and Itachi braces himself for his father’s next barrage of questions.

“Hey.” Father’s eyes lock on something over Itachi’s shoulder, and Itachi turns around to see Mother poking her head out into the hall. There’s a dissatisfied scowl on her face. “ _Dinner_.”

Itachi sighs, relieved. _Thank the gods._ Considering the conversation all but over at that point, Itachi takes a step towards the kitchen.

He stops when he feels a hand land on his shoulder.

Father’s looking down at him. “I’m meeting with Yashiro and the others tonight to give them an update. You’ll be able to come and give a report?”

Itachi’s skin crawls at the request, but he gives his father a curt nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Father releases his hold on him, and he moves past him down the hall. Meaning the conversation is _officially_ over now. But Itachi doesn’t follow; he keeps his eyes trained on Father’s back instead, his body hollowing with every step his father takes.

_He doesn’t want a war._

But Yashiro and the others? They’d have one. In an instant. And if they’re able to convince Father that negotiating with the village is a lost cause, that a rebellion is the only way to undo the persecution being inflicted upon them, then Father will surely wage one. Whether he wants to or not.

And that’s the real issue, isn’t it?

Father looks back at him when he reaches the doorway, raising an eyebrow when he sees that Itachi hasn’t moved. “Are you coming?”

_Not yet._

It would’ve been easier to move his legs had they been encased in concrete. But he manages, somehow, lifts up one foot, and then the other. And he joins his father at the door and goes into the kitchen.

**Shisui**

Shisui glances up as soon as Itachi walks into the room, a frown already making its way across his face. Itachi doesn’t look up as he takes a seat next to him, but he must feel Shisui’s eyes on him, nonetheless, because he gives Shisui a small, minute shake of his head. _Later._

Shisui’s frown deepens. Well. That’s not reassuring.

Fugaku, of course, gives even less away than his son: the man’s face is expressionless, his body language completely neutral as he follows Itachi into the kitchen and lowers himself down to the table. It’s expected really — Shisui has spent enough time around his uncle to know better than to hope for a twitch, or a sigh, or _something_ that might give him a hint as to what Fugaku’s thinking. But Shisui finds himself scrutinizing Fugaku anyway, looking for any sort of sign that might clue him in on how the conversation with Itachi went.

_“There’s going to be a war with the village, isn’t there?”_

His uncle, unsurprisingly, doesn’t deliver. Fugaku is a gods-damned paradigm of composure, not even so much as glancing in Itachi’s direction. It’s equal chances likely that he’s pissed as it is that he’s euphoric; the gods themselves probably couldn’t decipher his uncle’s mood, so why Shisui thinks he has a chance at it is beyond him.

Idly, Shisui wonders whether Fugaku has ever tried his hand at poker. He’d fucking clean up, no doubt about it.

 _Itachi, on the other hand..._ Shisui peers back at his cousin. His face is blank and passive, almost a perfect mirror of Fugaku’s. But his hand has disappeared beneath the table, and Shisui can just barely make out the sound of Itachi’s nail dragging across the wood.

Shisui presses his lips together. _Shit._ Itachi twitching is never a good sign — it’s one of his only tells. Shisui’s half convinced that there are strings running directly from the gears in his brain to his fingers, and the harder Itachi’s thinking, the more he needs to _move_ , needs to have something solid underneath his fingertips to pull at or scratch or pick. Almost like his body can’t handle the amount of energy thrumming beneath his skin, and Itachi has to find some way to expel it if he doesn’t want to fucking explode.

Itachi has the habit under control most days, is cognizant enough of the tendency to refrain from indulging in it. But when things are bad — like, _really_ bad, like his cousin’s brain is practically bleeding out of his fucking ears bad — the twitching surfaces with a vengeance. And Shisui isn’t so sure that Itachi can stop it.

He’s not stopping now, at the very least. His fingers have a steady rhythm going when Mikoto starts passing out the food behind them, reaching over to hand Fugaku a plate, and then Sasuke. She holds two plates out for Shisui and Itachi next — Shisui takes his with a small _thank you_ , but Itachi’s eyes stay locked in front of him, his fingers still moving beneath the table. He doesn’t move to grab the dish.

“Itachi,” Mikoto says.

Itachi doesn’t look up.

Fugaku takes immediate notice, his eyes hard as he lifts his head to regard his son. Even Sasuke stops eating — his chopsticks hover in the space between his plate and his mouth, a piece of meat carefully pinched between the two ends. Itachi doesn’t react to any of it. He either ignores the attention or is completely oblivious to it.

Shisui holds back a wince. _Gods, how bad was this fucking conversation?_

“Itachi,” Mikoto tries again, this time reaching out and lightly poking the back of Itachi’s head. And Shisui realizes Itachi isn’t ignoring them; he’s genuinely, honestly, just not paying attention.

Because Itachi _jumps_.

His knees bang against the underside of the table, setting the plates and utensils clattering. Shisui’s vaguely aware of the piece of meat falling from Sasuke’s chopsticks, Sasuke flinching at the sudden movement, but Shisui’s eyes stay locked on Itachi. He watches dumbly as Itachi pulls away from Mikoto with a small, choked gasp, and when Itachi looks back over his shoulder at her, his eyes are blown wide.

Shisui realizes his own eyes are practically bulging out of his skull, but he doesn’t at all have control over his face at the moment. _What the fuck?_

Mikoto is just as taken aback by Itachi’s reaction. She stares at Itachi, her mouth opening and closing as she tries to string together a sentence that properly encapsulates what the _hell_ just happened. Nothing but air comes out.

“I —” Mikoto starts, but the words almost seem to get stuck in her throat. Her eyes dart quickly over to Fugaku, though he hardly seems capable of offering any further insight into Itachi’s behavior. Fugaku’s expression isn’t nearly as gobsmacked as the rest of them, but even Shisui can tell that his uncle is disconcerted, maybe even _concerned_ , by what just happened. Because Itachi doesn’t... _do_ that. Fucking ever.

Mikoto’s eyes settle back on her son. After a few more moments of shocked staring, she eventually just pushes the plate towards him again.

Itachi glances down at the food. And gods, if Shisui wasn’t downright stupefied, he would’ve been impressed — Itachi composes himself astoundingly fast. The bewilderment is wiped from his face in an instant, and he actually looks _normal_ when he reaches out to take the plate from Mikoto. “Thank you.”

All eyes stay on Itachi as he turns around, but he pointedly ignores the attention as he picks up his chopsticks and starts to eat. His free hand stays in his lap for one second...five seconds...ten seconds...eighteen seconds...

And then it slowly migrates back under the table.

At that moment, Shisui can practically feel everyone in the room trying to make a decision: do they acknowledge whatever the fuck _that_ was, or do they let it go? Go along with Itachi and pretend like nothing even happened?

Shisui recalls that tiny, little head shake Itachi gave him when he sat down. _Later._

Later.

Shisui lifts up his chopsticks and takes a bite of his own food. Later. Itachi will tell him about it later. After dinner, probably, when they’re alone again. Or maybe tomorrow morning, or afternoon, or —

Shisui takes another bite. It doesn’t matter _when_ , exactly — Itachi will come and talk to him eventually. It might take some time, but he will. He always does.

And so Shisui plays along, willingly takes up the supporting role in this show Itachi’s putting on. Everyone follows suit soon enough: Fugaku starts eating, and Mikoto tentatively takes her seat at the other end of the table. Sasuke’s the only holdout, but after a few minutes of intense staring, he too falls right in line.

The rest of the meal is entirely silent. Everyone keeps half an eye on Itachi, waiting for — fuck, Shisui doesn’t even know. For him to lose his shit? Have a nervous breakdown? Start screaming right there at the table?

Shisui shovels more food into his mouth. He tries to ignore how disgusting it is, chewing threw the taste of salt and metal the drugs left behind on his tongue. Which isn’t hard, really, because, while he might be willing to wait for Itachi to tell him what the fuck’s wrong on his own, that’s hardly going to stop Shisui from sitting there and trying to figure out what happened in meantime.

 _The stress, it has to be the stress,_ Shisui figures. Though, admittedly, he’s never seen Itachi react like _that_ to pressure. But hell, he’s not so sure Itachi has ever had this much going on before, either. Fuck, anyone would crack if they had the amount of shit on their shoulders that Itachi has. The kid is stressed _normally_ , buried under his duties as an ANBU Captain for the Leaf and the heir apparent for the Uchiha. Add that to the fact that he’s also a fucking double agent for the village and the clan, and the new problem of that deity in the Reikai, and, fuck, he’s also probably traumatized from almost killing himself by channeling that goddess on his mission —

An image of Minori’s sagging body suddenly flashes before Shisui’s eyes, and a terrible, awful thought occurs to him: _what if this isn’t stress? What if this is because of the goddess?_

What if this is Itachi losing his mind?

 _No,_ Shisui immediately tells himself, pushing the thought away even as he feels fire tear through his veins. Itachi didn’t — that wasn’t even close to being like what happened with Minori. His cousin might’ve channeled a bit too much power, but it didn’t rip through him like it did Minori, didn’t tear through his mind like it did hers. Itachi wouldn’t have been able to make it back to the village on his own if it had. He would’ve been fucking catatonic, and he absolutely would’ve needed to be taken to the hospital. And that didn’t happen. Itachi just got a fucking headache and needed to lie down for a while. And that’s not — that’s not how it happens. That’s not severe enough to be a evidence of a god having torn Itachi’s fucking mind apart.

But Itachi’s Sharingan is different — it’s always been different. Maybe his reaction wasn’t as severe as Minori’s, but maybe the result was the same. Perhaps his mind is cracked and fractured and this is how it starts. This is Itachi beginning to go insane.

 _No,_ Shisui thinks, the panic making him desperate. That’s not how it happens — Itachi is an exception to many rules, but not this. _Not this._ Itachi’s fine. He’s _fine_. Shisui’s just on edge from Minori — gods, all Itachi did was space out and _flinch_ a little. Shisui hardly needs to be signing him up for a gods-damned enucleation because of that.

_But when have you ever known Itachi to react like that? To anything?_

_Stop it._ Shisui shoves another bite into his mouth, as if he might be able to chew his spiraling thoughts to pieces along with the food. This isn’t a sign that his cousin’s losing his mind. Itachi is just stressed, and scared, and freaking the fuck out like any normal fucking person would if they were in his position. Shisui will talk to Itachi about it later, and then he’ll figure out a way to make it all better. He will, even if it fucking kills him. So he bides his time and waits, eats his fucking dinner and keeps his mouth shut. _Later._

Keeping his mind from wandering is almost painful, though; without the haze of drugs to slow it down, his thoughts are free to venture back to the shrine, to Minori on the table and the katana slicing through her body. And _shit_ , it’s just too fucking easy to imagine Itachi in her place, to picture himself shoving a sword or dagger through his cousin’s heart, to picture the way Itachi’s body would slump and the way his blood would feel between Shisui’s fingers and how that last breath would sound leaving his lungs and _holy fuck, I can’t fucking — I can’t fucking do that. I’ll die if I have to fucking do that —_

Shisui’s plate is still half full when he has to stop eating, the mouthfuls gag-inducing. No one comments on it, but Mikoto does give him a worried look when she gets up to put her own plate in the sink.

“You’re done?” she asks, and it’s clear by her tone that she’s really, _really_ hoping he says that he’s not.

_“I thought I could handle it.”_

Shisui nods, the nausea tightening in his throat. “Yeah, I’m done.”

Mikoto sighs, but she motions for him to hand her his plate.

“I’ve got it,” Shisui offers, and he can’t help but think that he does a fairly poor job at hiding the desperation in his voice as he hefts himself up. But he needs to distract himself, needs to do something that will stop his _fucking mind_.

_If I could just get one more —_

Shisui doesn’t let himself finish the thought, taking it and shoving it _down_ instead. Fuck. That’s the last thing he needs. He’s no help to anyone if he’s fucking high.

_Dishes. I’m focusing on dishes now._

Shisui glances surreptitiously to the side, and he’s relieved to he see a mostly empty plate in front of Itachi. The sight alone is almost enough to make him forget the wanting in his chest.

He taps Itachi’s shoulder before pointing down at his dish. “Want me to take that?”

Itachi doesn’t jump this time, thank the gods. He just flicks his gaze lazily over to Shisui before giving him a small grunt and handing the plate over, and Shisui silently adds that to the list of proof he’s compiling to convince himself that Itachi is absolutely fucking fine. He’s _fine_ , and Shisui’s going to find out what’s wrong later.

Later.

Mikoto’s already grabbed Sasuke and Fugaku’s plates, so Shisui gets up and joins her at the sink, placing the dishes he collected on the counter.

“Thank you,” Mikoto tells him. She has a soapy sponge in her hand, and there’s steam rising from the water coming out of the faucet.

Shisui doesn’t bother asking if she wants help. He just grabs the towel hanging off the knob of a nearby drawer and waits for her to pass him a dish to dry.

There’s a quiet shuffling behind them as they clean, everyone apparently going their separate ways. Shisui sees Fugaku meander out of the kitchen from the corner of his eye, probably on his way to his office. Itachi gets up and goes in the opposite direction, outside towards the porch. Which is perfect, actually, because if he’s alone, then Shisui won’t have to wait to go and talk to him.

But then Sasuke gets up and moves to follow his brother, and Shisui can’t quite stop the litany of curse words that go through his head.

Shisui loves the twerp, he does. But _fuck_. Doesn’t he have homework to do or something?

“Did you finish your homework for tomorrow?” Mikoto asks. Her eyes don’t stray from the dish she’s scrubbing, and Shisui is momentarily convinced that Mikoto either has eyes in the back of her head or is some sort of mind reader. Definitely one of the two, though. Without a doubt.

The footsteps pause behind him, the floor creaking softly as Sasuke shifts his weight between his feet. Which is a sure sign that, no, Sasuke definitely didn’t finish his homework. _Thank the gods._ “I mean —”

“Homework first, Sasuke,” Mikoto chides as she hands Shisui the last plate. “You can spend time with your brother after you finish.”

“But —”

Shisui can’t see the look Mikoto shoots Sasuke, but, whatever it is, it puts an immediate end to Sasuke’s forthcoming argument. He doesn’t even have to turn around to know that Sasuke’s pouting. “Fine...”

Shisui has to hold back a wince. _Sorry, Sasuke._ He’d love nothing more than to help Sasuke out, to turn to Mikoto and try and convince her that there’s no harm in letting Sasuke spend _some_ time with Itachi before getting started on his homework. Hell, Shisui would even offer to help him with it after to make sure it got done. 

But he can’t do that. Shisui needs to make sure Itachi’s okay, and that won’t happen if Sasuke’s clinging to his brother’s leg. So Shisui preoccupies himself with drying the dish in his hands and tries not to feel like too much of a piece of shit for leaving Sasuke out to dry.

 _I’ll make it up to him later,_ Shisui decides. Maybe he can teach him a new shuriken jutsu or something — Sasuke would surely enjoy that, right? Or maybe he can show him an easy little trick, a sleight of hand that he can flaunt at the Academy?

Mikoto shuts off the sink and dries her hands with a wayward towel on the counter, looking back over her shoulder at Sasuke. “Want some help?” she offers.

Shisui pauses — Mikoto helping Sasuke is a sure way for the kid to finish his homework in fucking no time. _Say no, say no, say no, say no..._

“I can do it myself,” Sasuke mumbles.

Shisui very nearly groans. _Thank you._

“You sure? Might go faster if —”

“It’s fine,” Sasuke insists, an undercurrent of irritability there.

Mikoto hesitates, but she lets it go with little more than a sigh. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Sasuke’s only answer is to slowly retreat to his room. And Shisui is, undoubtedly, relieved.

 _You’re an asshole,_ a small voice tells him.

 _I know,_ he agrees easily before putting the dried dish and towel aside. But he’ll make it up to Sasuke; he will.

But first, he needs to find Itachi.

Shisui glances down, and his eyes catch on the garbage can near the door. It definitely doesn’t need to go out yet, but he figures it’ll make for a decent exit strategy, nonetheless.

“Want me to take the garbage out?” Shisui offers, turning to look at Mikoto. Her gaze is still trained on the empty doorway, the one Sasuke just walked out of.

“Thank you,” she says softly.

Shisui’s jaw tightens, and the guilt throbs.

 _But I have to help Itachi._ So he grabs the garbage, and he leaves.

The walk to the street is quiet, dusk settling heavily across the compound. The garbage bag swings loosely at his side, and he tries to focus on that to stop his mind from wandering back to Itachi. Itachi, Itachi, Itachi, who is absolutely _fine_ and doesn’t need Shisui sprinting back and throttling him in an effort to get him to tell him what the fuck is wrong.

_Unless he doesn’t think anything’s wrong. Did Minori think she was going mad? Did she feel herself slipping away bit by bit?_

The bag of garbage lands in the can with a loud _bang_. _Fucking — fuck, I need to stop. Itachi’s fine. He’s fucking fine._

Shisui holds onto that mantra as he turns back to the house, bypassing the front door in favor of walking around the outside porch. It matches up with his footsteps, pounding along with each soft _creak_. _He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine._

It takes Shisui a few minutes to reach the cherry tree at the back corner of the house, if only because he’s really, _really_ trying his best to take his time getting there. He knows it’s better to give Itachi a few minutes to sit alone with his thoughts, but _gods_ , it’s fucking hard — the more time he spends away from his cousin, the easier it is to convince himself that Itachi’s actually going insane. But he drags the walk out for as long as he can, even paces around the cherry tree for a while once he gets there. And then he realizes he’s about to have a nervous breakdown of his own if he doesn’t find out whether Itachi’s fine right fucking now, so he says _fuck it_ , sends a surge of chakra through his legs, and leaps up to the roof.

Itachi is sitting up, his head turned towards the slowly darkening sky. He doesn’t look over when Shisui lands behind him.

 _He’s fine._ Shisui takes a careful seat next to Itachi, his nerves bristling. “Hey,” he offers lamely.

Itachi’s tugging at a wayward thread on his pants. He offers Shisui a quick glance, but he doesn’t speak.

 _At least he’s paying attention._ “You okay?” Shisui asks, his voice tight.

Itachi doesn’t answer. And that’s a telling enough response.

 _He’s not losing his mind. He’s just stressed — he’s just fucking stressed._ Shisui presses forward. “Wanna talk about it?”

Itachi takes a small breath and bites at his lip. His fingers pull harder at the thread.

 _Please,_ Shisui silently begs. _Please just fucking tell me._

And Itachi...well. He actually does. Sort of.

“My father’s meeting with Yashiro and the others tonight,” Itachi says eventually. “He wants me to come and give them a report.”

Shisui feels himself relax slightly. He wants to accept that explanation — it makes sense, is certainly reason enough for Itachi to get worked up. But the sight of Itachi jerking away from Mikoto haunts him, and he can’t stop the dread from coiling in his stomach. Especially since Itachi’s fingers are still worrying at the thread.

_That’s not it. There’s something else. Something bigger._

_Minori. Minori, Minori, Minori._

Shisui takes a breath. Itachi’s not losing his mind — he’s not. He’s just worried about this fucking meeting. And that is something Shisui can definitely help with.

“Hm.” Shisui leans back and tilts his head, lazily kicking his legs out as he feigns a nonchalance he doesn’t at all feel. _Itachi’s fine._ “Sounds like something the resident Mangekyou user should be invited to, don’t you think?”

That actually earns him a small smile. It doesn’t reach Itachi’s eyes, but it’s something. And Shisui will fucking take it at this point.

...now he just needs to figure out how he’s actually going to go about getting into that gods-damned meeting.

It’s a problem, clearly — if Fugaku wanted him at the meeting, Shisui would be going to the fucking meeting. Which means Shisui’s going to have to come up with a convincing enough argument to change his uncle’s mind. And that’s difficult, see, because Shisui actually thinks he has a few decent reasons for wanting be there. He just highly doubts that Fugaku would be receptive to any of them.

Fuck. How would that conversation even go? _Well, see, your son’s freaking the fuck out because he’s convinced that you’re going to start a war with village, so I figured I’d invite myself to this meeting to help him make sure you don’t! That’s reasonable, right?_

_...no? Okay, well, what about the fact that Itachi is scaring the ever living shit out of me and I’d really rather not let him out of my sight because I’m terrified that I’m going to have to shove a sword through his heart by the end of the year? What about that? Is that a good reason?_

_Actually, now that we’re on the topic, I was just wondering — if you don’t mind me asking, I mean — do you and Mikoto already have a weapon picked out for the occasion? Is it an heirloom, something you keep on display in your office or something? Or do you keep it shoved in a drawer or at the back of a cabinet? Out of sight, out of mind, am I right?_

_...what? No, no, Uncle, you misunderstand. I’m not trying to be rude. I just want to know if you think about your son dying as much as I do. Because I think about it a lot. All the fucking time, really. But maybe that’s just because I’m gonna be the one that’s duty bound to kill him, you know? I mean — no, no, hear me out — I’m just saying that_ I’m _the one that’s going to be holding the sword or knife or whatever the fuck you pick out, and_ I’m _the one that’s going to have the image of it being driven through his heart embedded in my brain for the rest of my life. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about it._

_Can you stop thinking about it, Uncle? That’s all I want to know. Can you fucking stop thinking about it?_

_Actually, better question: did you ever fucking start?_

...yeah, he doesn’t think that would go over well with Fugaku. Which means he needs to find another angle, another reason that might convince his uncle that his presence is necessary.

Shisui has some time to come up with something, at least — the meeting is in the middle of the night, so he has a few hours to kill. He spends that time practically attached to Itachi’s hip, still looking for little signs to prove to himself that Itachi is fine. Shisui’s pretty positive that he’s being overtly overbearing about it, but if Itachi is bothered by the company, he hasn’t mentioned it. He was silent as they both crawled back into the house through his window after the sun set, and he didn’t at all complain when Shisui grabbed some tattered poetry collection crammed on one of his bookshelves and set himself up smack in the middle of Itachi’s floor to ‘read’ it. 

In Shisui’s defense, he is actually making an effort to pretend like he’s reading the book, lazily flicking through a page or two every few minutes. But he’d be lying if he said that his attention hasn’t stayed wholly focused on Itachi. Itachi’s surely noticed by now but, again, he has yet to complain. He’s mostly been ignoring Shisui, hovering over his desk with his head bent over a scroll for the better part of an hour. Which is possibly a good sign — he hasn’t been twitching, at least, and he seems to actually be reading whatever it is he grabbed. And surely, if Itachi was going insane, he wouldn’t take the time to fucking _read_? Right?

 _But Minori acted normal at first, too,_ a small voice reminds him. _Her descent wasn't fast; it was slow, so fucking painfully slow._

And yet none of them could help her. _Shisui_ couldn’t help her.

_So what makes you think anything you do can help Itachi?_

There’s a knock on Itachi’s door, then, and Shisui flinches, the corner of the page he had pinched between his fingers ripping ever so slightly. Fugaku enters without waiting for a response, and it’s with an abrupt jolt of apprehension that Shisui realizes he’s been so focused on Itachi that he still hasn’t come up with a solid reason to go to this meeting.

_...shit._

“Ready?” Fugaku says, his voice low as he peers at Itachi’s back.

Shisui musters up as much confidence as he can. _Going to have to do this on the fly, then._ “Hell yeah,” Shisui grins, tossing the book back onto Itachi’s bed and getting to his feet. “Where’s the meeting at?”

Fugaku’s gaze darts over to him, his eyes narrowing. There’s an accusation there, and Shisui realizes his mistake: no one is supposed to have told him that this meeting is happening yet.

 _Fuck._ Itachi’s not going to appreciate that slip up. He’s about to glance over to see if his cousin is giving him that look he reserves for moments when Shisui’s been spectacularly moronic, but then Fugaku speaks up.

“You’re not coming, Shisui. This doesn’t concern you.”

The rebuff is harsh, but he should probably just be grateful that Fugaku’s evidently willing to overlook the screw up for now. “Come on, Uncle,” Shisui implores. “Surely I can be of _some_ help.”

Fugaku actually glares at him, and the intensity of it catches Shisui a bit off guard. “It’s nothing you need to be involved in.”

 _Nothing I need to be involved in?_ As if Shisui’s not already up to his fucking ears in matters involving the clan; as if his hands aren’t fucking stained with the _blood_ of this fucking clan.

“I’m a Mangekyou user,” Shisui tries, starting to feel a bit indignant now. “I deserve to be part of this meeting.”

“The answer is _no_ , Shisui,” Fugaku all but growls. He turns his attention back to the other side of the room, then. A blatant dismissal. “ _Itachi_.”

Itachi doesn’t say anything, though. And Shisui takes that as a sign that Itachi wants him to continue arguing this point. “If this is about earlier, I’m good,” he says, huffing a laugh as he tries a different tactic. “The drugs are out of my system, and...”

_...and..._

...and Fugaku isn’t paying attention to him. At all.

Shisui blinks, letting the unfinished sentence dangle in the air. Hesitantly, he follows his uncle’s gaze. And he realizes there’s a reason Itachi didn’t interject earlier — he still has his head bent over the scroll, his bangs covering his face.

_He isn’t listening._

It’s like dinner all over again. “Itachi?” Shisui says, and he tries to ignore how unbearably thick the air around him suddenly feels.

Itachi doesn’t move.

 _He’s just distracted by what he’s reading,_ Shisui tells himself. _Yeah, that’s it. That has to be it._

Fugaku is still standing at the doorway. His arms are crossed, his jaw tight. He doesn’t move to speak again, or walk farther into the room. Really, he seems far too content to just stay where he is, as if he’s willing to wait there all night to see just how long it takes Itachi to come to his senses.

Shisui sort of understands the logic in that — he does. But, holy fuck, he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to stop himself from screaming bloody murder if Itachi doesn’t look up in the next few seconds. And he’s not going to be able to help Itachi with whatever the fuck is wrong if someone needs to tranquilize his ass again. But he fights to keep himself still nonetheless, fights against his strongest instincts so he can wait this out with Fugaku. _Itachi’s fine. He’s fine._

He lasts seven fucking seconds before he almost loses it. Because fuck — fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , he fucking — Shisui can’t do this, he can’t play this fucking waiting game.

_Do you think about him dying as much as I do?_

Shisui’s walking over to Itachi before he even realizes it. He places a hand on Itachi’s shoulder and braces himself, waiting for Itachi to flinch and pull away from him like he did with Mikoto. Though he hopes — _gods_ , does he fucking hope — that Itachi will turn and face him with little more than a raised eyebrow.

The contact sends an immediate jolt through Itachi’s body; he probably gives himself whiplash with how hard he jerks his head up. And, at that exact moment, Shisui is positive that he’s either about to start crying, or screaming, or fucking gouging his eyes out of his skull right there in the middle of Itachi’s bedroom.

_They can’t make me kill him. They can’t fucking make me kill him._

But Shisui doesn’t do any of that. He keeps his hand on Itachi’s shoulder, and he takes a deep fucking breath, because he needs to hold it together. For both their sakes.

So he takes another breath. And he doesn’t fall apart.

He gets ready to tell a bad motherfucking joke instead.

It’s stupid, something about Itachi being particularly inattentive today and, fuck, you’d think he was the one that spent the entire morning high off his ass. Not his best, admittedly — he already knows he’s not going to be able to stop his voice from trembling when he says it, and that the joke is going to fall flat, and that it’s going to be absolutely awful for everyone involved. But he supposes none of that ends up mattering, because the words never even make it past his lips, Shisui struck speechless the second Itachi turns to meet his gaze.

Itachi’s Sharingan is bright and wheeling.

Time slows. Itachi’s room drops away from Shisui, and he can’t see it — he can’t _see_ it, but he can _feel_ it, can _feel_ himself back in the shrine. And it’s nothing like the fucking memories and nightmares he’s been plagued with all day; this is _real_ , he’s really — he’s really _fucking there_. The muscles in his arms are taut and he feels himself stab the katana through Minori once. Twice. Then again and again and again and his hands are slick and there’s metal in his mouth and he tries to scream but he’s choking, choking on the blood pooling in his fucking throat and he can’t breathe, he _can’t fucking breathe_ —

He jerks away from Itachi with a ragged gasp. “ _What_ —”

Itachi rolls his eyes.

 _No,_ Shisui suddenly realizes, the horror of it wrenching at his gut. Itachi isn’t rolling his eyes; his eyes are _rolling_ , back and back and back into his skull until his irises are lodged so far underneath his eyelids that Shisui can only see white.

He’s too stunned to reach out and catch his cousin before his body hits the ground.


	7. Words of Pandemonium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: chapter contains imagery that some may find disturbing.

**Sasuke**

It’s raining.

That’s the first thing Sasuke notices: that it’s raining. Absolutely pouring, in fact. The raindrops make no noise as they tumble from the sky and sink into the ground; they’re silent, mere whispers in the air. They whisk down Sasuke’s body, rolling off his skin and clothes. There’s no trace of water left behind — the droplets are there, and then they’re gone, dripping off the bottom of his shirt and pants and leaving Sasuke dry and burning.

A crack of thunder sounds above him. No lightning follows. And Sasuke idly thinks that he probably should’ve brought an umbrella. Or a jacket, at the very least.

The second thing Sasuke notices is that he’s at the shrine. He’s standing on the top step, the marble spongy underneath his bare feet. He feels himself sink deeper into it the longer he stands there, as if the marble wants to consume him entirely — as if it wants to swallow him whole.

It’s early in the day. Sasuke knows he should be at the Academy by now — class is probably starting, Iruka Sensei beginning to take attendance. He won’t realize Sasuke’s not there, at first; it’ll take him a while to go down the list, to check off the _A_ ’s and _B_ ’s and _C_ ’s first. But he’ll reach the _U_ ’s eventually, maybe once the sun has already set and everyone has gone home for the day. And when he does, he’ll call out _Sasuke Uchiha_ , readying his pen over the little checkbox indicating _present_. Maybe he’ll have even started filling it in prematurely, confident that Sasuke will be there like he always is.

But Sasuke won’t be there, and so no one will answer — Sasuke’s name will be met with a stony, unfathomable silence. Iruka Sensei might look around at that point, might think that Sasuke just didn’t hear him. But Sasuke will have heard him, even all the way at the compound. And he won’t answer, won’t say _here_ so Iruka can mark it down on his clipboard. Because he’s not allowed to be in class today. It’s _very important_ that he isn’t in class today.

Sasuke squints at the shrine through the rain. The endless, endless rain. It’s flooded the rest of the compound, submerging every house and shop and street under miles upon miles of water. Sasuke barely made it out of his own house alive. The torrent had nearly pulled him under, had nearly wrapped itself around his ankles and shoved its way all the way down his throat until it drowned him. But Sasuke outran it — he ran as fast as he could, faster than he’d ever run before. He left behind everything he knew, clung to his life and watched the altar upon which his entire world was built be destroyed. And it’s gone, now. All gone. Nothing left but a vague memory that Sasuke already feels himself forgetting.

It’s with a twinge of guilt that he remembers he left Spike alone on his bed. He hopes he’s okay — Sasuke isn’t sure whether Spike knows how to swim or not.

There’s a crash behind him. Sasuke glances over his shoulder and sees that the Naka River is only a few steps away. It’s surface is completely ablaze, fire licking high up towards the sky, bright and beautiful and loving. The river is trying to put out the rain, he realizes — it’s trying to save the compound, trying to staunch the flood that’s been unleashed from the sky.

 _Maybe that’s why the shrine hasn’t flooded, yet,_ Sasuke thinks. _The fire is keeping it safe._

The flames lap at Sasuke’s feet. He can feel the desperation pulsing off of it as it forms a canopy above his head, pushing the rain _away, away, away_. Probably because it knows that he didn’t bring an umbrella.

Sasuke turns back around. He sees the shrine gleaming in the distance, a weak, twinkling light. It calls to him: _closer, closer._ Sasuke takes a step away from the river, away from its warm flames. _Closer._

The flames flare behind him, hot and stifling. _Don’t._

Sasuke stops for a moment. He reaches back, brushes his fingers against the fire’s warm tendrils. “I have to,” Sasuke tells the river.

The fire blazes, sparks flying up towards the sky. A protest.

“I’m sorry,” Sasuke says. “I’m sorry.” He takes another step away from the river. The fire reaches out towards him, tries to grab hold of his hand. Agitated murmurs rise up from its scorching depths; Sasuke can’t make out the words, but he imagines that it’s trying to tell him to stay, that it’s safer here. That _he’s_ safer here.

_Let me save you; let me save at least one of you._

Sasuke pulls away. The river moans. _Please. Please._

But Sasuke keeps walking. Walking, walking, walking. Soon the river is only a bright light in the distance, a small, flickering beacon urging him back to safety. Sasuke turns away from it.

The rain is relentless.

The shrine rises before him, larger than a mountain. It’s roof brushes against the sky, the sharp point jabbing a hole in the clouds. A small beam of light filters through and shines down on its rickety, rotten structure. Bugs are crawling over every inch of it, weaving in and out of holes and crevices. There’s a baby deer near the basin, a few rabbits and crows hopping along the far side of the building. The rain doesn’t touch any of them, doesn’t even get _near_ them.

It’s safe here.

Sasuke puts the umbrella he’s holding off to the side. He doesn’t need it anymore.

There’s someone standing in the doorway of the shrine: a light-haired brunette with gaping black holes where his eyes should be. Something tells Sasuke that this person is meant to be Shisui. He doesn’t argue with it.

Sasuke reaches out to grab Shisui’s hand, but Shisui just swats him away.

“But it’s raining,” Sasuke argues.

Shisui just shakes his head, tilts his face up towards the sky. The sunlight lays flat along his skin. It curls itself around his cheekbones, winds around the edge of his jaw so it’s cupping his face in its hand. But it disappears into nothing the moment it touches his eyes, its essence devoured by those twin pits.

Sasuke wishes he still had his umbrella.

“Why is it raining?” he asks Shisui instead.

Shisui turns those cavernous voids directly on Sasuke. Black sludge starts oozing out of them and down his face, thick and slow like syrup. It slurps at the light coating his skin, draining all the color from his face. “I don’t know what happened.”

The shrine groans behind Shisui, moved by the sound of his voice. It scares the deer and the rabbits, sends them scampering a few steps back. But the crows don’t move.

“It’s not my fault,” Sasuke insists. “I didn’t do anything wrong.

Shisui shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Do you think it’s my fault?” Sasuke asks, hurt.

Shisui throws his hands in the air, scattering sunlight. Sludge spurts from his eyes. “I don’t know!”

Bitterness surges through him. It moves his mouth for him, makes his tongue and lips form words he immediately regrets: “Well, maybe it’s _your_ fault.”

Shisui doesn’t react to the jab. Not outwardly, at least. But Sasuke knows, without a doubt, that he hurt Shisui in that moment. The shame at the realization quells his hostility and urges him to revise his statement, to try and smooth down the harsh edges of it. _This isn’t Shisui’s fault, either,_ it reminds him. _He’s as confused as you are._

“Or maybe it’s a jutsu,” Sasuke eventually mumbles.

“No,” Shisui whispers. Sasuke looks up at him — the sludge is pouring down his face in a steady stream now, dripping along his chin and falling in perfectly round rivulets to the ground.

“What is it, then?”

Shisui keeps his hollowed eyes locked on something in the distance. “A god.”

“A god?” Sasuke doesn’t think that sounds right, but Shisui probably knows a lot more about this than he does. “Like a rain god?”

Shisui shakes his head. Drops of sludge fly off his face, and Sasuke feels some of it spatter against his cheek. “I don’t — I don’t know. I was in the shrine with Minori, and — and — _fuck_ —”

Sasuke’s eyes widen, and he reaches out a hand to grip the bottom of Shisui’s shirt. Sludge squirts between Sasuke’s fingers, warm and gooey. Shisui’s entire body is trembling. “What happened?”

Shisui gasps out a single name: “ _Itachi_.”

Understanding dawns on Sasuke. “The rain god kidnapped Itachi?”

The sky darkens. More thunder sounds overhead. And the rain doesn’t stop. “I’m sorry,” Shisui whimpers, choking the word out between labored breaths. He wipes at the sludge on his face, and it comes away sticky on his fingers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry —”

The sky groans, the rain comes down harder. It inches closer to the shrine, and the animals and bugs there begin to pace, growing agitated as it threatens their refuge. The crows don’t move, though. The crows never move.

“It’s okay,” Sasuke says, reaching for Shisui. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault. I’ll save Itachi from the rain god.” Then, as an afterthought, “Don’t let Father see you crying.”

“ _I can’t_ —” Shisui gasps.

“You can,” Sasuke assures him. “Just hide your face.”

Shisui takes a large, gasping breath. And then he digs his fingers hard into his eyes. The sludge _squelches_ as he reaches in and in and _in_ , pressing and squeezing every last tear out of those chasms. It drips down his arms, pouring off his elbows and hurtling down to the ground. There’s a puddle of it forming around Shisui’s feet — it soaks into his shoes, reaches grasping hands up to wrap its fingers around his ankles.

 _No!_ it yells. _No!_

Sasuke sees that his own feet are completely underwater. Bubbles form around his ankles, pockets of air released from the pores of his skin. And it’s then that he realizes the shrine will not stand for long. He probably only has minutes before the entire world is flooded by the rain god.

Sasuke looks back up at Shisui. His mother is standing there instead.

“Oh gods,” she wails, tears pouring down her face.

Sasuke throws his arms around her, giving her the biggest hug he can manage. “It’s okay,” he tells her. “I’ll stop the rain god and I’ll save Itachi. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

She doesn’t seem to hear him, though; she just keeps repeating those same two words, over and over and over again: “Oh gods. Oh gods. _Oh gods_ —” Sasuke wishes he had a blanket to give her.

An awful, terrible noise comes from somewhere above Sasuke. He looks up to see that the sky is bawling, it’s very fabric tormented by the never-ending rain. “Why are you just standing there?!” it shrieks. “Help me!”

Sasuke takes a step back from Mother. He cups his hands around his mouth. “Don’t worry!” he screams up at the sky. “I’ll help you, too!”

The sky screams — frustrated. Angry. Upset. It’s unfortunate, especially since Sasuke is almost positive that he doesn’t have a blanket big enough to make it feel better.

_I have to hurry._

Sasuke looks back down at his mother. Shisui is next to her, now. The sludge on his face it gone, and his eyes are bright and gleaming, full of sunlight and _life_.

“I’ll take him,” Shisui tells Mother, placing a hand on her shoulder.

 _Take me where?_ Then Sasuke realizes. “You’re going to take me to the rain god?” he asks, a hint of dread creeping into his voice. _Don’t say yes, don’t say yes, don’t say yes..._

Shisui nods.

Sasuke can’t stop his knee-jerk reaction. “No!” he yells. “You can’t take me there — I’m going to do it by myself! I can save Itachi by myself!”

Fire glints in Shisui’s eyes. “I know,” he growls, and the very foundation of the shrine shakes from the anger echoing through his voice. The bugs and animals scream. The crows hold their silence. “But we don’t have time. And I’m faster than you.”

“But —”

“ _We don’t have time._ ” Shisui scoops Sasuke up into his arms. Sasuke fights against him instinctively, kicks and screams and desperately tries to wrench himself out of his cousin’s grasp. But Shisui’s hold is unbreakable; the fire Sasuke had seen in his eyes must be running through his veins, fortifying the muscles there until he’s as strong as the gods themselves.

Sasuke feels tears beginning to form in the corners of his eyes. “I can do it!” he yells, his fingers clawing at Shisui’s sun-dappled skin. Particles come away underneath his nails, hot and glittering. But Shisui remains entirely unfazed — he’s armed with fire and light, now. Nothing can touch him. Nothing at all.

Shisui turns to Mother, and she reaches up a pale hand to cup the side of his face. Her knuckles begin to redden. “Hurry,” she begs Shisui. “Please.”

“ _But I can do it myself!_ ” Sasuke wails. “ _Mother_ , I can do it —”

“I will,” Shisui promises.

“Stop — _stop_ —” But Shisui’s already walking away. From Mother, from the shrine. He takes Sasuke out into the downpour, and the water is knife-sharp against Sasuke’s skin. Sasuke jerks in Shisui’s arms, a particularly large drop biting hard into the soft skin of his cheek.

“It hurts,” he whimpers, his tears and the rain one and the same. “Shisui, it _hurts_.”

Shisui doesn’t respond. He can’t hear him through the light.

“I want to go home,” Sasuke sobs, digging his hands into the dry fabric of Shisui’s shirt. It’s warm underneath his palms. “Shisui, I want to go _home_.”

And so Sasuke does.

He’s alone, the hall stretching for miles in front of him. The floor is wet, the wallpaper peeling. His umbrella is leaning against the wall, near his shoes. Which is good — Mother would’ve been angry had Sasuke forgotten it at the shrine.

Sasuke takes a few cautious steps forward, his feet _squishing_ against the floor’s soft wood. He wobbles along, step after step, holding his breath because he’s afraid he’ll drown if he doesn’t.

His lungs are on fire by the time he reaches the kitchen. It’s the same fire that was in Shisui’s eyes, Sasuke now harboring it between his own ribs. Sasuke tries to put it out with a single, gulping breath as soon as he walks through the doorway, forcing the water-kissed air down into his body. It twists down his airway, cool and revitalizing. But it stops just before it reaches his lungs.

The fire remains.

Sasuke notices a small brown bag on the kitchen table. The flames move to his belly. Slowly, _slowly_ , he walks towards the table. His feet make no noise, not even a _creak_ , and Sasuke feels a surge of pride at the fact. He’s as quiet as Itachi — Father will be proud.

He reaches the table and immediately starts climbing up the leg of it. It’s a harrowing journey, and it takes him hours to make his way up the chipped wood. The footholds are shallow, and he gets thousands upon thousands of tiny splinters stuck in his hands. They sink into his skin, seep into his bloodstream and make his entire body stiff. His limbs and joints ache, but his lungs feel strong. The fire is filling them, even as the air around him starts to thin.

A millennia later, he reaches the top. There are clouds floating around his head, tangling in his hair. Their cotton fingers brush softly against his cheeks, whispering _it’s okay, it’s okay. I promise, it’s going to be okay_ as he hoists himself onto the tabletop.

It’s a desert up there — hot and dry, nothing but dirt and sand. Something wrenches in Sasuke’s body at the sight, and he finds himself keeling over. The fire launches itself from his lungs, squirming up his throat and out of his mouth. It flops onto the ground, a gob of liquid magma so hot it burns straight through the earth, down and down and down until it reaches the center of the planet.

Sasuke gasps in a breath. Without the fire, it feels gritty in his lungs, the granules burrowing into the soft tissue there and biting through it with their teeth. It hurts, and Sasuke has half a mind to reach down into the hole, to try and coax the fire back out. But part of him knows that’s pointless, now; the fire is gone, back home where it belongs. So Sasuke forces himself to straighten, takes another breath of coarse air and steps around the hole at his feet. And he continues on his journey.

Traveling to the center of the table, compared to the climb up it, is serene. Sasuke barely even walks; he lets the waves carry him forward while he just bobs along and keeps an eye out for that small bag. That small, small bag.

He stumbles upon it accidentally. Along with his brother.

Itachi is sitting in front of the bag, his legs covered in sand. His hair is dripping wet over his shoulder, and thin tracks of sludge run from the corners of his eyes down to his chin.

Sasuke runs up to him. “Did the rain god bring you here?” he asks, breathless.

Itachi doesn’t answer. He wipes at the sludge, smears it across his lips. A drop of it trickles off his face and lands in his lap, and it sends the grains of sand there scurrying away. Sasuke thinks he can hear them screaming, but he isn’t sure.

“I’m here to save you,” Sasuke tells his brother. “Everything’s going to be okay, now.”

Itachi just picks the bag up between his darkened, rotting fingers. He hands it to Sasuke. Sasuke takes it and unrolls the top carefully: an endless pile of cookies sits inside.

Sasuke feels himself grin. He reaches inside the bag and carefully, _oh-so-carefully_ , pulls out a cookie. It’s a smooth, flat disc in his hand, hard and unbelievably solid. Sasuke lifts it to his mouth and takes a huge bite.

Sour mud explodes across his tongue.

Sasuke’s eyes bulge and he hurls, mud spewing out from his lips and his nose. He chokes on it and he’s coughing, trying to get the mud out of his body but he _can’t_ and there are tears streaming down his face because he feels the mud hardening in his throat and suffocating him and there’s only one clear thought running through his head: _I can’t let Father see me crying._

It’s hard to see through the tears, but a bright, squirming object suddenly appears at his feet, spreading across his toes. He watches it make its way slowly up his pants, then up his shirt. He loses sight of it as it hoists itself up onto his shoulder, grabbing at his hair so it can pull itself up to the top of his head. Sasuke can feel it’s warm feet pressing against his scalp, and it’s then that he knows what it is.

 _The fire._ It came back.

The fire leans down over his forehead, wriggling between his eyebrows. Sasuke feels himself going cross-eyed trying to stare at it, the mud still choking him. But the fire just stares back at him. Watching. Waiting.

And then it lunges for his eyes.

A blinding white light explodes across his vision, the fire squeezing and slithering underneath his eyelids. Sasuke doesn’t think he screams — he doesn’t think he _can_ , not with all the mud in his throat. The tears evaporate off his face, and Sasuke’s eyes feel like they’re about to explode, the heat burning them to the core.

“Stop,” Sasuke tries to say, but the mud chokes the words back, stifles them so the sound never even gets past his lips. _Itachi,_ he thinks instead. _Itachi — help me. Please. Please!_

It’s too late, though, the fire shoving the last of itself into Sasuke’s head. His vision stays fuzzy, a white expanse of nothingness. He can’t hear anything, can’t smell anything, and all he can feel is the fire making itself at home in his body, pressing along his skull until it finds his spine and starts climbing _down_.

It squeezes past his muscles, his organs; _searching_ for something, looking and looking and he’s still spewing mud and he wants to but he can’t, the fire having burned all of his tears away.

His stomach lurches, and Sasuke realizes the fire is poking at it, wrapping itself around the organ so it can embrace every inch of tissue there.

_Stop._

The fire presses _in_ and Sasuke grips at his belly, digging his fingers into his skin as if he might be able to reach inside and pull the fire out himself.

_Stop!_

Sasuke feels it soak into his stomach, bleeding through the tissue until it sits inside. It flares.

And the mud inside his body evaporates.

Sasuke gasps in a breath and looks up. He’s back in the kitchen, mud covering his feet. There’s a person in an orange mask by the door — it’s his father, and he’s cradling Spike in sludge-covered hands.

“I won’t let anything happen to him,” he tells Sasuke.

When Sasuke speaks, he has his mother’s voice. “You already let something happen to him.” And that’s when Sasuke realizes he’s crying again, crying because Spike is ruined in his father’s hands.

 _I can’t let Father see me crying._ But he can’t stop. Spike is ruined. _Ruined_.

Father places Spike down on the floor. And then he disappears.

The mud has hardened around his feet, and Sasuke needs to yank them up and out of its stiff grasp. The bag is no longer on the table, and some part of Sasuke knows that means Itachi is safe.

But Spike — Spike is ruined.

Sasuke walks over to his little green dinosaur. He hears a low, quiet sobbing then, and Sasuke realizes that it’s coming from Spike.

“It’s okay,” Sasuke says, picking up Spike and hugging him to his chest. The sludge on his scales stains Sasuke’s shirt, but he doesn’t care. “You’re going to be okay.”

Spike keeps crying.

And that’s when Sasuke wakes up.

Darkness greets him, the candle he’d lit earlier evidently extinguished at some point. He’s soaked in sweat, and his heart is pounding against his ribs.

 _A dream,_ he thinks.

There’s still a layer of sleep coating his brain, but he’s aware enough to realize that he’s _burning_ underneath his covers. He flings them off groggily, wanting nothing more than to feel the air on his arms and legs.

He flinches when something jabs hard into the back of his hand.

Sasuke groans, pulls his hand close to his chest. He turns his head to the side and squints — he can just make out his _Leaf History_ textbook lying next to him, the pages terribly crumpled.

 _Homework._ He didn’t finish it; he still has a few pages left to read for tomorrow’s class.

Sasuke stares at it, considering. And it occurs to him that this might still be part of his dream. Maybe he isn’t awake at all, and none of this is real. It doesn’t seem all that unlikely, if he’s being honest.

Especially since he’s almost positive that he can still hear Spike crying in the kitchen.

**Shisui**

It’s raining.

“ _Open the fuck up, Suou!_ ” Shisui shouts. He can barely see the cabin door through the downpour, even when lightning flashes across the sky, and he blindly kicks out to slam his foot against it. Once. Twice. Then again, and again, and again, and _again, and_ —

 _He should be here. Fugaku said he would fucking be here._ “ _Suou!_ Open your gods-damned, mother _fucking_ door!” A roar of thunder punctuates the demand, the sky screaming at a decibel Shisui _wishes_ he could reach right now. Maybe then Suou would fucking hear him. Maybe _then_ Suou would open his _fucking door_.

Another thread of lightning shoots through the sky, illuminating the forest in a sickly bright glow. It lights up Itachi’s arms, rain-slick and limp as they hang over Shisui’s shoulders. His skin looks gray, looks _dead_ , and the sight sends a renewed jolt of panic through Shisui.

_He’s dying. Dying, dying, dying or — gods, maybe he’s dead already. Maybe I’m carrying the corpse of my best fucking friend and I’m going to get inside and Suou’s going to tell me that it’s too late, that he’s gone and there’s nothing left to do but burn his fucking body and he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead —_

The fear is overwhelming. Suffocating. It makes him lightheaded, strangling the edges of his vision until he’s left looking through pinholes. There’s a tight band of tension wrapped around his head, like fingers trying to claw their way into his skull, and Shisui tries to _breathe_ but the air around him is muggy, thick and stifling and almost impossible to pull down into his lungs. He tries not to gasp for it, knows that’s the quickest way to start losing his shit completely. Instead, he forces himself to breathe deliberately — slow and even, in and out. He focuses on the rain dripping across his skin, the feeling of it dripping off his hair and down the collar of his shirt. And, slowly, he becomes aware of a steady _thump_ against his back, weak and soft but undeniably _there_.

_Thump......thump......thump......_

Itachi’s heartbeat — because Itachi’s not dead. He’s not dead, not yet. Itachi is alive. He’s alive.

Shisui grabs onto the sensation with a fury. He devotes all of his attention to it, lets the vibration of Itachi’s heartbeat spread across the entire expanse of his back. It drips into his body, harmonizes with the rhythm of his own erratic pulse.

_Thump......thump......thump......_

_Alive......alive......alive......_

Lightning strikes, and Shisui takes another large gulp of air. Water pours across his face, spills into his mouth. “ _Suou!_ ”

The plea gets lost amidst a deafening clap of thunder, and Shisui can’t help but curse every god he fucking knows — for what, he’s not sure. For the storm? The fact that Suou won’t open his fucking door? For letting Itachi channel their power at all, for shoving it through his eyes when they know — they _fucking know_ — that he doesn’t have the bloody fucking Mangekyou?

Or maybe he’s cursing the gods for damning Itachi and their entire fucking clan by giving them these eyes in the first place. For damning _Shisui_ by giving him the Mangekyou. Maybe that’s what he’s cursing them for. Not that it matters, really — he could curse them for anything he damn well wanted and they’d fucking deserve it. They’d absolutely fucking deserve it.

_Itachi. Itachi, Itachi, Itachi._

Shisui grits his teeth and glares at the wooden door in front of him. The one thing standing between him and Suou. The difference between Itachi living and dying.

“Fuck it,” Shisui growls. He digs his fingers harder into the soaked fabric of Itachi’s pants, gets a better grip on him as he unleashes a flood of chakra down his leg. He’s already breaking a clan law by being here — what’s one fucking more?

Shisui braces his right leg in the mud and viciously kicks out with his left, driving the heel of his foot into the door. The attack is powerful, fueled by equal parts frustration and desperation — the door should break apart underneath the sole of his shoe, should fucking _shatter_ with the amount of force he’s exerting on it. His muscles stiffen in anticipation of falling forward, his body preparing to let gravity drag him across the door’s threshold and into the cabin.

But Shisui doesn’t move. Because the door doesn’t budge.

Instead — and Shisui is almost convinced he’s imagining it, that he _has_ to be fucking imagining it, but —he swears, he _fucking swears_ , he hears the cabin _scream_. Itachi starts to slip down his back and Shisui tries to pull his leg away from the door, but something abruptly grips at it — a cold, prickling force that keeps his foot pressed flat against the wood. Shisui’s eyes widen.

And that’s when the pain comes.

A scorching heat shoots up Shisui’s leg. It singes his skin, shoves fire down into his pores, and Shisui chokes on a scream just as whatever has hold of him slams him back and _away_. Shisui fights to regain his footing, part of him still cognizant of Itachi’s precariously balanced form on his back. He lands hard on his injured leg, instinctually angling his foot so his shoe digs into the mud instead of sliding along it.

Thunder swallows his scream whole.

The pain is nothing short of devastating. It racks its way straight through Shisui’s bones, launches a flurry of stars across his eyes. The injured leg buckles under the weight, his knee driving into the soaked earth and sending another blistering wave of agony through the limb. Itachi’s weight shifts against his back, and Shisui is just barely able to reach an arm up to steady him before he tips to the ground.

Shisui stays like that, frozen. There’s no stopping his gasping breaths now, his jaw slack and a mixture of rain and sweat sloughing off his face. His entire leg is hot, is _burning_ from the inside out. There’s a small voice in the back of his head, born out of logic and self-preservation, telling him that he needs to assess the damage, needs to look down and see how drastic his injury is. But he doesn’t — _fuck_ — he doesn’t have _time_ to deal with his own gods-damned injury. He needs to help Itachi. He _fucking needs to help Itachi_.

It’s a struggle to pull himself to his feet, but somehow, he manages. He has to balance most of the weight on his right leg, barely able to even rest the toe of his left shoe on the ground without it eliciting a wave of dizziness and nausea.

“Shit,” Shisui mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut as he finally straightens. The earth is practically rolling underneath his feet, and he has to force down the vomit rising up his throat.

 _Itachi. I need to help Itachi._ But the nausea is persistent, twisting at his stomach and hollowing his chest. He feels himself sway to the side, just slightly — _just slightly_ — and he leans a fraction of his weight on his injured leg.

Shisui lurches forward immediately, vomit spilling between his lips.

There’s another spark of lightning. Another roar of thunder. His leg throbs with it, and he spits the last of his throw-up down onto the mud. _No time,_ he tells himself. _Itachi. You need to focus on Itachi._

Shisui takes a deep, _deep_ breath, shoves the muggy air down into his lungs until they ache. “ _Suou!_ ”

No one answers, and Shisui wishes he could say that surprises him. He’s about to try again, is prepared to yell himself hoarse until Suou finally hears him, but the pain in his leg flares again. And instead of Suou’s name, the only thing that comes out of his throat is a low, trembling moan.

 _Shit._ Impermissibly, Shisui curls in on himself, his body starting to shake. From the pain. From the panic. From the unbearable weight of Itachi’s body on his back.

“Fucking... _fuck_ ,” Shisui growls. The thunder cries in agreement. Or maybe it’s amusement. Maybe the gods are all watching, laughing and taking pleasure in his misery. They’re probably treating this all like one big show; a way to pass the time, a way to _entertain_ themselves. As if Shisui and Itachi are nothing more than pieces in a game, or marionettes in a play. As if they’re lives have no meaning. As if they’re _insignificant_.

Shisui hates them in that moment. With every fiber of his being, he fucking hates them. He hates the goddess Itachi channeled on his mission, and the greater deity that trapped him in the Reikai; he hates the deity that ripped its way through Minori’s mind, and the deities that ripped their way through the minds of every Sharingan user before her. He hates whoever the fuck Itachi was communing with back in his room, whoever the fuck sent Shisui’s mind back to the shrine, to that _hell_. All of them. He hates fucking all of them. 

And he hates himself for not being able to save a single member of his fucking clan from them. Not one. Not even Itachi.

He wonders if the gods take pleasure in that, too.

Shisui takes another breath, his jaw tight as he glares down at the mud. His leg has a pulse of its own now, the painful heat beating erratically underneath his skin. It creates an unsettling dissonance as it mixes with the rhythm of Itachi’s heartbeat against his back, sending another rolling wave of sickness through Shisui’s body.

_Thump..thump....thump.thump......thump..._

_Alive..alive....alive.alive......alive..._

_Itachi._

Shisui grunts, tries to pull Itachi farther up his back. _Fuck the gods_. Itachi’s not dead. He’s not fucking dead, and the gods don’t get to take him away from Shisui, too. They fucking don’t.

Lightning strikes, but different than before — the light is warm instead of cool, washing the ground in front of him with its glow instead of the sky above him. Shisui pays it no mind. Suou’s name sits on the tip of his tongue instead, Shisui about to fling it from his mouth before the pain in his leg breaks it apart in his throat again.

But he doesn’t even get a sound out because, suddenly, his own name is being spoken to him. “Shisui?”

Shisui’s eyes widen. His head snaps up and — _gods be good_ — Suou’s standing right there in front of him, awash in light pouring from the cabin. His eyes dart up and down Shisui’s body, as if he can’t quite believe Shisui’s actually there. “You’re not —” Suou pauses. “Child, you’re not permitted to be here.”

Suou’s words barely register; all Shisui can hear is his own relieved sob. “ _Suou_.”

Suou keeps staring at him, his mouth moving but no words coming out. He shakes himself. “Shisui, you — gods, child, you can’t be here. You need to leave —”

“No, no — _fuck_ — no, I know I’m not — that I’m not supposed to —” Shisui has to stop, another wave of dizziness pulsing through him as his leg throbs.

“Shisui —”

“It’s Itachi,” Shisui interrupts, pushing through the pain and vertigo. “I — he — I was with him, and he — he —” The words devolve into a choked whimper as a sharp wave of pain hammers through him.

There’s a hand on his arm, and Shisui looks up just in time to see Suou peer down at his leg. “Are you hurt?”

Shisui shakes his head, his breaths shallow. “No, I’m — I’m fine I jus’...just kicked...your door and...Itachi, he...” He feels himself starting to pitch forward, then, an abrupt airiness settling in his skull. That tiny voice preoccupied with his own self-preservation is screaming at him, telling him that this is _bad, this is very, very bad_. But it can’t be all that bad, Shisui thinks, because the pain in his leg is slowly starting to dull; it’s numb, now, prickling instead of burning. And that’s better, Shisui thinks. Much, much better.

Suou puts a hand under his chest, pressing him back up. “You used chakra when you kicked it, didn’t you?”

“Sorry,” Shisui mumbles, his mind too foggy to manage a more eloquent apology. “You weren’t — weren’t answering...and...Itachi...” Inadvertently, he leans more of his weight into Suou, and he’s just barely aware of the man wrapping his arms around him. A mixture of saliva and vomit dribbles from his mouth, lands on the side of Suou’s foot. Shisui should probably apologize for that, too, he thinks. And he will — when his tongue and mouth start cooperating again, at least.

The ground moves underneath him, then. The mud transforms into hard wood, and suddenly there’s a rug moving towards him, lifting up to meet his cheek and cradle his body. He’s half convinced that he’s floating. And his leg — _gods_ , his leg — he can barely even feel it now. It’s gone, disintegrated, turned to dust and taking the pain away with it.

Vaguely, he’s aware of Suou moving next to him, his bare feet _creaking_ against the floor. Itachi’s weight disappears from Shisui’s back, and the relief he feels is incredible. _Suou’s going to help Itachi,_ he tells himself. _Itachi’s going to be fine. Fine, fine, fine._

Shisui’s eyelids start to slip shut, his vision whiting out. _Gods, that’s a relief._ And he didn’t even need a vial this time.

A shadow flits across his eyes, and he thinks he hears something rip, maybe a piece of paper crinkle. There’s a pressure on his leg, sliding down his thigh. Which isn’t...

Shisui tries to move, to get away from whatever the fuck Suou is doing. _Itachi,_ he tries to say. _You need to help Itachi._ But he can’t open his mouth, his tongue heavy and his throat thick. That white light is fuzzing out his mind, and he feels himself slipping, getting slowly dragged under by it and...

His eyes shoot open as he feels something reach inside his left leg and _pull_ , tearing at his muscles and veins. The pain is explosive, hot and agonizing and ruthless. There’s an animalistic sound slamming against his eardrums, and it takes Shisui a moment to realize that it’s coming from his own throat, that he’s screaming bloody fucking murder. A firm pressure moves to grip either side of his leg, spreading the skin _open_ , and Shisui instinctively tries to pull himself out of its grasp. But he doesn’t move; he can’t fucking _move_ , something keeping his entire body pressed against the ground. The rug bunches underneath his fingers. Tears pour down his face. And he screams. He screams, and screams, and screams.

Suou’s voice bubbles up between his cries, low and soothing. “You’re okay, child. It’ll be over soon.”

 _Soon_ feels like it lasts a fucking lifetime, and then some. At one point, Shisui’s nearly convinced that the pain is going to be endless, that he’s going to have to carry it with him for the rest of his life. It doesn’t lessen, doesn’t ease — it just _is_. All consuming. Eternal.

The pressure on his thigh increases, and Shisui writhes as the pain sharpens even further. “Shh,” Suou tells him. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Shisui chokes on a gasp. “ _Stop_ ,” he begs. 

“I’ve almost gotten all of it out. Just a few more minutes.”

Thick needles jab into his veins, and Shisui’s vision blacks out. He isn’t sure if he’s still screaming — he’s not sure if he even _can_ still scream, not with how raw his throat is. All he’s sure of is the pain. The endless, torturous pain.

The pressure suddenly shifts around his leg. “This is going to be the worst of it — you’re going to want to take a deep breath.”

“ _Please_ ,” he heaves instead. “ _Please stop_ —” But then his bones are _wrenched_ to the side, right there inside his skin, and Shisui’s plea is strangled by an ear-piercing shriek.

“Okay,” Suou says just as a coolness spreads across Shisui’s thigh. Shisui expects it to hurt, to add another layer of agony to this fucking hell. But it’s actually...gods, it’s actually _soothing_. “It’s over, now, child. You’re okay.”

The pain falls away in increments, bit by bit until Shisui’s left feeling absolutely hollow. He presses his forehead against the damp rug, gasping as his entire body sags in relief. _Thank the gods._

A light pressure lands on his shoulder. “You’re going to need to sit up, Shisui,” Suou tells him.

 _Sit up._ It’s a simple command, one Shisui shouldn’t have a problem following. And yet he’s not entirely convinced he can move. He tries, though, places shuddering hands underneath his shoulders and _pushes_.

He barely gets his chest off the ground.

“Here,” Suou says, snaking an arm underneath him and lifting. He maneuvers Shisui’s limp form with ease, leans his back against the wall and places his legs gently in front of him. Shisui just groans, the sudden movement sending an unsettling itch crawling beneath his skin.

“You’ll regain control over your body soon,” Suou promises. “It’s not a common side effect, but I’ve never known it to last longer than a few minutes.”

Shisui’s tongue sits heavily between his teeth. He tries to open his mouth, to say something, but Suou immediately quiets him.

“Shh,” Suou chides. “Don’t try and speak yet.” He produces a small vile from some hidden pocket of his cloak, pops the top off with his thumbnail. “Drink,” he tells Shisui, placing the glass against Shisui’s lips.

Shisui can’t do much more than silently acquiesce. Not that he would’ve refused the vial even if he could have; it’s not a lot, whatever it is, but Shisui swallows what little there is greedily. It slides down his tongue, coats his throat, and Shisui all but melts into the sensation, already feeling the effect of it coiling through his veins.

_More._

Suou pulls away all too soon, though, places the vial back in his pocket. Shisui opens his mouth to complain, to verbalize the wanting bubbling through his bones, but his glazed mind is momentarily distracted when he sees Suou’s hands move down to press around his leg.

There’s a towel being held around his bare thigh, the left leg of his pants having been cut away at some point. There’s a sickeningly sweet stench coming from the towel, the fabric tinted green with whatever cream Suou spread on it. Shisui can just see a hint of pink peeking out from the underside of it.

_Blood._

Shisui’s fairly surprised there isn’t more; he half expected to see his entire leg slick with blood. But there doesn’t appear to be blood on anything other than the towel. Not that the rest of his leg is in decent condition — the skin of his calf is purpling, as if it’s covered in one large bruise. Even his toes are purple, he realizes, and he imagines that the skin still covered by his shoe is in a similar condition.

“It’ll heal,” Suou assures him. Shisui drags his gaze over to see Suou frowning at him, his brow furrowed. “You’re lucky that was the extent of the damage. Very, very lucky.”

 _Lucky._ That’s funny, Shisui thinks. He doesn’t feel all that lucky. If he was lucky, then Suou would’ve opened his door sooner, would’ve heard him as soon as he arrived so he could help Itachi —

_Itachi._

Shisui’s entire body twitches. _Itachi. Itachi, Itachi, Itachi._ He tries to turn his head, knows his cousin can’t be all that far. But he doesn’t quite manage it. “‘tachi...” he mumbles, the letters sticking to his tongue. “You nee’...need t’help...”

“What did I say, child?” Suou immediately scolds. “Save your strength. Itachi’s right here.”

Shisui groans. “No,” he says. “No, no...you need...you nee’t’help’tachi...it’s...s’why I came...”

Suou stares at him another moment, then glances over to his right. _At Itachi,_ Shisui presumes. But he doesn’t get up to tend to him.

Shisui manages to make his hand move, then his arm. “Suou —”

“Neither of you are permitted to be here,” Suou whispers, still looking at Itachi.

“I kn — _I know_ ,” Shisui says, forcing himself to enunciate. The panic is starting to curdle in his gut again, the fear that had been engulfed by the pain reviving itself.

_Itachi, Itachi, Itachi._

“Itachi —” Shisui swallows hard. “I think it’s bad, Suou,” he admits. “Really,” a breath, “really bad. And I couldn’t...I couldn’t wait for you to —” _fuck_ “— for you to be at the shrine and — and Fugaku said you’d be — that you’d be here, and —” Shisui’s throat suddenly tightens, the rest of the words falling to pieces in his mouth.

“Okay, okay,” Suou places a hand against Shisui’s shoulder. “Breathe, child.”

Shisui shakes his head, swallowing again. “No — _no_. You need — we don’t have _time_ , Suou, you need to — you need to _help him_ or —”

“Shisui,” Suou sighs, but Shisui keeps going, can’t stop because Suou’s already wasted too much time dealing with Shisui’s fucking leg and _Itachi — he needs to help Itachi_.

“I think he damaged his mind,” Shisui says in a rush. “He channeled something, and then he — he passed out, and —”

Suou shakes his head. “Child, I don’t think you understand the magnitude of what you’re asking. There’s a procedure for this, and if it’s bypassed —”

“ _Please_ ,” Shisui pleads, his eyes wide and desperate as he stares at Suou. The words are coming easier now, at least, his tongue lightening by the second. “Come on, don’t — don’t tell me I almost just — just blew off my fucking leg for nothing. Help him. _Help him_.”

Suou is still for a moment, his eyes trained on Shisui’s thigh. And then he sighs. “If I accept your request, the gods will demand compensation.” He looks up at Shisui. “Are you prepared to pay their price?”

Shisui doesn’t fucking hesitate. “Yes.”

Suou’s jaw tightens. And, for a moment, Shisui is convinced that he’s still going to say _no_ , that he’s still going to turn Itachi away.

But then Suou nods. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll help him.”

Shisui can’t even begin to verbalize the relief he feels. But he knows he needs to say something, needs to somehow convey his gratitude to Suou.

It’s undoubtedly inadequate, but it’s all he can come up with at the moment: “thank you,” Shisui breathes. 

Suou shakes his head. “Don’t thank me, child. You’re the one that’s going to have to pay for it.”

The words should be foreboding. Threatening. But Shisui can’t find it in himself to care about that at the moment. If he needs to prostrate himself before the gods, leave his soul entirely to their mercy to save Itachi, he’ll gladly do it. There’s no price Shisui wouldn’t pay. None at all.

Suou angles his head down towards Shisui’s thigh. “Keep this pressed against your leg while I examine him.”

Shisui actually manages to follow the order this time — he eagerly wraps his hands around the towel, practically pushing Suou’s away. _Itachi. Go help Itachi._

Suou lets go and shuffles to the right, and Shisui turns his head to the side to watch as Suou scoops Itachi’s soaked, dripping body into his arms. Suou isn’t a particularly large man, but the sight of Itachi cradled against his chest...

 _He looks so small,_ Shisui thinks, staring blankly at the way Itachi’s head lolls against Suou’s shoulder, at the way his limbs dangle in the air.

Shisui’s hands squeeze the towel ever so slightly, and he feels a small gush of cream rise between his fingers. _Suou’s going to be able to help him. He is._

He watches intently as Suou carries Itachi over to the lone table in the room, watches him rest his body gently along the smooth wood. Suou reaches and takes Itachi’s wrist as soon as he’s settled, placing two fingers against his pulse.

“It’s steady,” he mumbles, seemingly to himself. He leans over and peels one of Itachi’s eyelids back with his finger. “How long ago did he channel the deity?” Suou asks.

 _How much time did you waste getting him here?_ Shisui hears instead. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Not more than an hour, I don’t think.”

Suou _hums_ , moving to look at Itachi’s other eye. “Did you see what he channeled the power into?”

Under different circumstances, Shisui might’ve found the irony in that question funny. As it stands, though, he can’t find it in himself to give Suou anything other than a straight answer. “He channeled it into me.”

Suou freezes. He looks over at Shisui, his lips thin and his eyes wide. “What?”

It takes him a few seconds, but Shisui’s mind eventually catches up to his mistake. He balks. “No, no, wait, he didn’t...he didn’t _mean_ to. He was communing with the deity and I...I interrupted him and then he _looked_ at me, and...” Shisui feels his mouth go dry. “He didn’t do it on purpose,” he eventually gets out. “It was my fault. He didn’t technically break a clan law.”

Suou keeps staring at him.

“He didn’t, Suou,” Shisui insists. “I swear to all the gods. It was an accident.”

Suou still doesn’t look convinced, and that scares Shisui more than fucking anything. Gods, it didn’t even — it didn’t even fucking _occur_ to him to lie about what had happened. As if what Itachi did couldn’t possibly be construed as a blatant violation of clan law, as if he thought it impossible for Suou to view it as anything but what it was: an _accident_.

The panic flooding his body is different from before, bright and vile instead of dark and desperate. Itachi had aimed the power of a god at _him_ , at a fellow Uchiha, and Shisui might have just delivered him straight to Suou for punishment. All because he didn’t think to keep his _stupid fucking_ mouth shut.

Plans begin to unfold in his head, thousands of words dancing in his skull that might, _might_ convince Suou not to hold Itachi accountable for this. Because it was an accident — _an accident_ , and —

Suou sighs, turns his attention back to the examination. “I’m willing to take your word for it, if only because you’re a Mangekyou user.”

Shisui’s body is still thrumming with alarm. “So you won’t call a tribunal?” Because he has to be sure, has to be sure that Suou really, truly intends to let Itachi off the hook for this.

Suou eyes him. “I won’t,” he promises. “But do try and keep what happened to yourself. It’s not inconceivable to think the clan might believe you’re trying to cover for him. And there’s not much I can do if the majority demand Itachi face judgement.”

Shisui nods his head before Suou even finishes talking, up and down and up and down. He won’t breathe a word of it. Not to anyone.

Suou starts feeling around Itachi’s throat. “Did it feel familiar?” he asks.

It’s still difficult to get a breath in. “What?”

“The deity. Have you yourself ever channeled it before? Or come across it in the Reikai?”

 _Hands wrapped around the katana, driving it through Minori again and again and again_ —

“Shisui?” Suou asks, and that’s when Shisui realizes his hands are trembling around the towel. He squeezes them harder against his thigh, more of the cream dribbling between his fingers.

 _Itachi. Help Itachi._ “No, I’ve...I’ve never felt anything like it before.”

“Hm.” Suou shifts his attention back to Itachi’s eyes. “Do you know of any deities he may have been communing with?”

Shisui thinks before he speaks this time, makes sure nothing he says can possibly, _possibly_ come back to hurt Itachi later. “There was...he channeled a goddess —”

He jumps as a harsh series of knocks sound on the cabin door. Suou merely glances at it before looking back down at Shisui. “I presume that’s Fugaku?” he asks, and he says it as if he’s dreading the answer.

Shisui just nods.

Suou sighs again, a frown already on his face as he makes his way to the door.

Fugaku, unsurprisingly, wastes no time with pleasantries. “How is he?” Shisui hears him ask as soon as Suou opens the door.

“I’m in the middle of examining him,” Suou says, stepping to the side so Fugaku can enter. And Fugaku — Fugaku comes inside in a _rush_ , his clothes soaked and his hair dripping. Shisui’s right by the door, still gripping his leg, but Fugaku’s gaze passes right over him, his eyes immediately going to the table. To Itachi.

Shisui clenches his teeth. _Are you fucking afraid now, Fugaku?_

Fugaku takes a step towards Itachi, but Suou holds an arm out, stopping his advance. “Don’t,” Suou murmurs. “It’s best if you stay by the door.”

Fugaku stares down at the arm, then glances up at Suou. His jaw is tight.

“I can’t help your son if you’re hovering over me,” Suou tells him, his voice almost stern. He dips his head towards Shisui on the floor. “Stay here. Keep Shisui company.”

Fugaku frowns, then, looking down at Shisui as if he hadn’t even realized he was there. His eyes widen a fraction when he sees his leg. “What happened?” he asks, glancing at Suou as he makes his way back over to Itachi.

“I’ve already dealt with it, Fugaku,” Suou immediately says, sounding a bit tired. “The leg will be good as new in a few weeks’ time.”

Fugaku doesn’t say anything to that. Just turns his gaze back to Shisui’s leg.

There’s an accusation, there — Fugaku doesn’t need to say shit for Shisui to fucking know that. The state of Shisui’s leg is proof of time wasted, after all, time that Suou could’ve used helping Itachi. It’s proof of Shisui’s failure, of his _inadequacy_. Of his inability to help Itachi or any other fucking Uchiha.

 _Don’t pretend like you didn’t fail him, too,_ Shisui wants to say.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles instead. A fluster of rage and self-loathing settles across his shoulders, and he feels his entire body slump from it.

Shisui doesn’t actually expect a response — and Fugaku, for his part, doesn’t give him one. But Suou does. “It’s not your fault, Shisui. The warding on the cabin isn’t common knowledge.” There’s an edge to his voice, a roughness that Shisui doesn’t think he’s ever heard before. He chances a glance at Suou, but his attention is wholly focused on Itachi, his fingers back to lifting up Itachi’s eyelids. “You mentioned before that Itachi might’ve channeled a goddess, Shisui?”

Shisui opens his mouth, but Fugaku interrupts him. “Goddess?” he says, and Shisui freezes. He doesn’t need to even look at Fugaku to know that a glare is being aimed straight at him. “What goddess?”

Shisui feels his face flush. “I...” _Shit._ Itachi must not have told Fugaku about what happened on the mission.

 _So much for not saying anything that’ll bite Itachi in the ass._ Shisui gnaws at his lip. Because this — _this_ feels like a betrayal. Itachi had trusted him with this information, and here he is, about to smear it across the air for everyone to see. But what else can he do? Lies won’t help Suou heal his cousin. He needs to know. And if that means Fugaku has to find out, too...

Shisui swallows. _Sorry, Itachi. I’ll find a way to make it up to you, I swear._

“There was a goddess on his last mission,” Shisui says, practically flinging the words from his mouth. “I think...she was stronger than the deities he usually channels. He said that she wouldn’t tell him her name, and he tried to look for her in the Reikai after, but...” Shisui trails off. “I don’t know, he might’ve tried calling her down with his Sharingan again.”

Suou _hums_ , still peering at Itachi’s eyes. “He successfully channeled her the first time?”

“I...don’t know,” Shisui admits. “He had a headache when he came back, and it was worse than usual. I gave him one of your vials and it went away, but I think...I think it’s possible that the goddess might’ve...” He doesn’t manage to get the words out, though, and they’re left floating in a space between his mouth and his brain: _I think she might’ve damaged his mind._

Suou seems to understand, regardless. “Has he exhibited any symptoms?”

Shisui pictures his cousin pulling away from Mikoto, practically jumping straight out of his skin.

He can’t find it in himself to give Suou a proper answer. But, really, he thinks his silence is probably the most telling answer of all.

“Is there anything you can do?” Fugaku asks, his voice low, quiet. Shisui looks up at him. His uncle is staring blankly at the table. At Itachi. “Something preventative, something...” Fugaku trails off, looking as haunted as Shisui’s ever seen him.

Shisui doesn’t even try to quell the resentment he feels at the sight.

Suou purses his lips. He crosses his arms and takes a step back from Itachi, cocking his head to the side. Shisui can just barely hear him mumbling under his breath. “Well, his eyes are certainly strained. And there does appear to be some inflammation setting in. Which is typically symptomatic of a break...” Suou places a hand on his chin, considering.

Having to sit and wait for Suou’s determination is painful. Almost more painful than whatever the fuck happened to his leg. _Say that you can help him. Please fucking say you can help him._

“My suggestion would be to wait,” Suou eventually decides, and Shisui is almost positive his entire chest is going to collapse from the disappointment. “There isn’t enough deterioration to warrant immediate action. The damage present could very well get better on its own.”

 _But it could also get worse,_ Shisui thinks. _It could get much, much worse, and Itachi could be undergoing an enucleation before the first snow._

Fugaku seems to be thinking along a similar vein. “ _Could_ ,” he repeats, as if the word itself is an insult.

Suou hardly seems moved by Fugaku’s tone. “Yes. I’d say there’s around a fifty-five percent chance it resolves.”

Shisui’s heart leaps into his throat. _Fifty-five percent._ Meaning there’s a forty-five percent chance that it doesn’t, and Shisui will have to watch Suou scrape Itachi’s eyeballs straight out of his skull.

Fugaku’s already shaking his head. “That’s not good enough,” he says. There’s a weight behind his voice, a power there. As if Fugaku truly believes his word alone will change the fucking outcome of this. As if he thinks he can force Itachi to make a full fucking recovery if he just _says_ so.

Suou frowns. “There aren’t many treatment options for the Sharingan, Fugaku — you know that. The eye isn’t strong enough to withstand the remedies, and they usually end up causing more damage than they prevent. Waiting is the safest option for Itachi.”

_The safest option for Itachi’s eyes, you mean. Because of course preserving the gods-damned Sharingan is the fucking priority here._

He thinks back to Minori, to that small, sad smile. _“I can’t live without my eyes.”_

 _But you could have. You fucking could have. The Sharingan isn’t worth dying over. It’s fucking not._ Though Shisui seems to be the only fucking Uchiha who can see that.

And Fugaku...

 _He’s going to have Suou wait,_ Shisui realizes, a pit settling in his stomach. _He’s not going to want to risk damaging Itachi’s Sharingan. He’d rather wait and possibly have his son undergo an enucleation than —_

“Itachi’s Sharingan might be strong enough,” Fugaku insists. “It’s not the Mangekyou, but he’s called down plenty of gods before. There has to be...” Fugaku stops, takes an audible breath. “There has to be _something_.”

Admittedly, that’s exactly what Shisui wanted to hear from Fugaku; he should be jumping for fucking joy at the fact that his uncle is actually trying to get Suou to help Itachi. And yet something about watching Fugaku practically beg sends a surge of bitterness through Shisui’s body, makes him unconsciously grip his hands tighter around his leg. _Maybe if you’d taken that_ budding concern _and stressed caution to Itachi from the very beginning, if you’d emphasized the consequences of channeling gods without the fucking Mangekyou instead of pushing Itachi further and further and_ further _..._

Shisui bites his tongue to stop himself from screaming. _This is your failure as much as it is mine._

Suou considers Itachi silently for another few seconds. Then he slowly bobs his head, and Shisui finds himself momentarily distracted from his fury. “There is...one technique I’d be willing to try. It’s not too intensive, and if it works, it should substantially increase his odds of recovering. But I will warn you: the treatment could severely damage his eyes if his Sharingan isn’t strong enough to withstand it.” He looks up at Fugaku. “With that in mind, would you still like me to proceed?”

 _Say yes,_ Shisui immediately thinks. _I swear to all the gods, Fugaku. Fucking say yes._

Fugaku keeps his gaze firmly on Itachi. “What constitutes as substantial?” he asks, and Shisui sees red. _You fucking asshole._

“If it works, it should put him around eighty percent.”

 _Eighty._ Still too low for Shisui’s liking, but it’s better than fucking fifty-five. And if it’s the only solution Suou’s willing to offer other than _wait-and-fucking-see_ , then Shisui is sure as shit going to take it.

But, unfortunately, that’s not his decision to make.

Shisui glares at Fugaku. _Say yes._

Fugaku doesn’t move. Barely even fucking blinks. His jaw is clenched, there’s a deep frown on his face. And his eyes stay locked on Itachi.

 _It’s worth the risk,_ Shisui wants to shout. _Gods, just fucking say yes._

It feels like an eternity passes before Fugaku slowly turns his gaze to the ground. He closes his eyes, and Shisui sees his throat jump as he swallows.

_Say yes._

Fugaku doesn’t move.

_Say yes._

He takes a breath.

_Say yes._

And then he nods. “Give me the scroll and I’ll approve it.”

The air is punched straight from Shisui’s lungs, and he wants nothing more than to just curl into a ball and fucking sob. _Holy shit. Holy fucking shit._

Fugaku got something right. Miracles do fucking happen.

Shisui keeps himself upright, though, takes an agonizingly deep breath and presses his back against the wall. _Eighty percent. It’ll put him at eighty percent._

_That is, if it works._

Shisui pushes the thought aside. _It’s going to work. Itachi’s Sharingan is strong — it’ll be able to handle whatever Suou does to it._ It will. It has to.

Shisui expects Suou to start moving right then, to go get whatever scroll Fugaku needs so he can start this fucking procedure. But he doesn’t. Not right away. 

Instead, he turns to look at Shisui.

His eyes soften, his lips turn down into a small frown, and what remains of Shisui’s already shot composure crumbles. _Why,_ why _are you wasting any more fucking time considering me?_ Shisui’s fine — he’s _fucking fine_ , and now that Suou has Fugaku’s permission or approval or what-fucking-ever, he needs to _help Itachi_. That’s what he should be fucking focusing on. _Itachi._

“It’s your price to pay,” Suou tells him, his voice soft. Apologetic. _Regretful_.

And Shisui suddenly understands.

He huffs, relaxing back against the wall. As if Suou even needs to fucking ask. “Do it.”

**Itachi**

Itachi wakes up feeling hollow, embers burning in his skull.

He can’t stop the groan that rises from his throat. The space behind his eyes is hot, is _buzzing_ , and his entire brain throbs with it.

“Itachi?” a voice asks. Distorted, as if Itachi’s underwater.

He groans again. Questions lurk in his mind, _who’s_ and _where’s_ and _why’s_ , but he doesn’t quite manage to formulate a single one of them, not with the fog crowding his brain. He tries to open his eyes and — gods, if he didn’t know any better, he’d think someone had attached weights to his eyelids. He only manages to peel them back to thin slivers, and even that almost proves to be too challenging. The urge to shut them again is all-consuming, but he fights against it, forces himself to blink them closed, and open, closed, and open. It’s slow, laborious, but eventually, the world comes into blurry focus.

There’s a face hovering above him.

It takes Itachi a moment to place it, to make out the deep lines and wrinkles. _Suou_ , he realizes. He opens his mouth, a _what_ inching past the haze and crawling onto the tip of his tongue. But gentle fingers suddenly press against his temples, and it dissipates.

“Shh,” Suou says. “Just relax.”

There’s an odd, choked sound somewhere off to the side. A question lies there, too, but this one doesn’t even manage to leave Itachi’s brain, let alone make him curious enough to glance towards the noise. The sudden airiness expanding in his head drowns out everything, leaves him thinking and wanting nothing as it creeps down his spine and spreads to the very edges of his body. The heat behind his eyes decreases, the _buzzing_ turning into a soothing _thrum_. His eyelids droop shut. And he sighs.

A hand pushes his hair back, and the only thought that floats through his head is _Mother_.

“Sleep now, child,” Suou says.

And Itachi does.

For how long, though, he isn’t sure. All he knows is that the next time he wakes up, consciousness is far less gentle with him. It grips his mind between its fingers, squeezing until he jerks awake. A harsh gasp escapes his mouth, but not before catching on the dry edges protruding from his throat. And his eyes. His _eyes_.

They’re hot. _Burning_. As if two small fires have been set right there inside his sockets. He opens them, or — or he _tries_ to open them, but he can’t feel his eyelids and the world around him stays dark and he tries to move and he _can’t_ , only manages to twitch the tip of his index finger and his eyes, his eyes, _his eyes_.

Suou’s voice is clearer this time. “Itachi? Are you awake?”

Itachi makes a sound, low in his throat, but no words come out. His jaw feels locked shut, his tongue heavy and thick. The questions are scrambling in his mind, now, words and sentences darting every which way and colliding with a ferocity that tears them apart. He tries to grab the broken pieces of them, tries to fit them back together, but they keep fading before he can string them into anything coherent. He finds himself grasping instead, trying to conjure a thought or a memory that might give him some sort of context as to where he is, as to what’s _happening_. But there’s nothing solid there, everything a mere shadow or a whisper.

And his _eyes_.

Itachi takes a labored breath, drawing it in through his nose. But his body just uses it as fuel for a pained moan. _My eyes. My eyes._

A smooth palm suddenly presses against his forehead. It’s warm, pulsing, and Itachi’s insides cringe from it. It makes the heat from his eyes spread _out_ , makes it sink down to his nose and cheeks until his entire face is burning. His body, though — he can’t get his body to move away from it, not even slightly.

The sound that leaves him is guttural. _What are you doing?_

“I know, child,” Suou soothes. His hand settles more firmly against Itachi’s forehead, and another wordless protest bubbles up Itachi’s throat. “Don’t fight it.”

“Is it not working?” another voice asks, low and tight. It sounds like it’s coming from miles away, like Itachi is hearing it from across a canyon but — but that tone, the warmth of it, the _familiarity_ — Itachi can’t _not_ react. He manages to twitch his entire hand this time. _Shisui_.

Suou _hums_. “He may just need more time to acclimate to it. We’ll give it another hour.”

The hand on his forehead disappears, though the heat exploding across his face hardly lessens. There’s a shuffling somewhere above him, and the next thing Itachi knows, a smooth, cool edge is being pressed against his lips. “Drink,” Suou tells him.

 _Why?_ Itachi thinks, but it collides with a _what?_ and both questions end up getting muddled inside his head. It hardly matters, though, because a thin, sour liquid is already rolling down his throat.

“And if he doesn’t acclimate to it?” Shisui asks. “Then what?”

_Then what?_

The liquid pulls him under. And Itachi doesn’t end up hearing the answer.

Minutes pass. Or hours. Or maybe entire seasons even end up going by. Itachi isn’t sure, not about that, or about anything, really. He’s entirely senseless as he lies there, barely even cognizant of his own name. The only reason he remembers it at all is because there’s a voice in the back of his head, whispering it to him over and over and over again.

_I-ta-chi...I-ta-chi...I-ta-chi...I-ta-chi..._

_I-ta-chi._

He wakes up.

The first thing he’s aware of — the first thing he’s really, _truly_ aware of — is the fuzziness coating his brain. Like a moss, hiding in its deepest crevices. It’s vibrant. Electrifying. _Alive_ in a way that should be unsettling, he thinks. But there’s something undoubtedly... _familiar_ about the sensation. It’s something he knows, something he should be able to put a name to. The answer is — it should be _right there_ , but he can’t grab onto it, the word slipping just out of his reach.

The fuzziness starts moving, then. Squirming. Spreading itself out and laying its tendrils flat along his brain so it can take up even more space. _Your eyes,_ it whispers.

 _My eyes,_ Itachi thinks dully.

They’re no longer blazing, he realizes. The fire has left him, has been extinguished so all that’s left is a smoldering pile of ash. They feel almost numb, like the nerve endings there have been partially blocked.

 _Open them,_ the voice in his head instructs.

Itachi does. Or — well, he tries to. But his eyes, they’re...

_They’re already open._

The world around him is dark, though. Pitch black. Not even a hint of light or shadow to be seen. He tries to blink and can’t, tries to squeeze his eyes shut and _can’t_.

The fuzziness in his mind shifts again, and the events come back to him in a rush, memories cascading before him in both chunks and slivers. _Suou. Shisui. My eyes, my eyes, my eyes._

_“He may just need more time to acclimate to it.”_

_“Just relax.”_

_“Is it not working?”_

_“And if he doesn’t acclimate to it? Then what?”_

Fear and dread mix together in his blood, an acidic combination that makes his entire body freeze. Slowly, almost gently, he stretches out his fingers, forces himself to scrape his nails across whatever he’s lying on because this can’t be an enucleation, it _can’t be_...

They bite into hard, damp wood. And Itachi can all too clearly picture himself lying on that table in the shrine.

Panic explodes through each and every one of his cells, and Itachi flings himself upright. He instinctively reaches for his eyes — _his eyes_ — only to find a smooth, thick plate pressed to his face.

 _Blind,_ the voice taunts. _You’re blind._

Desperation grips at his lungs. _No._ He claws at the blindfold, feeling around the edges of it and trying to get his fingers underneath it. But — _fuck, shit, fuck_ — it doesn’t even _budge_.

 _The back,_ the voice tells him, and Itachi isn’t sure why he’s still listening to it — maybe because it’s familiar, and he _knows_ what it is, he _does_ , he just can’t — he just can’t _think_ right now, and — _fuck_ — so he listens to it, follows the edge of the blindfold with his fingertips to where it should be secured at the back of his head. But it’s all just smooth plastic; there’s not a lock or a tie or a clasp or _anything_ for him to tear into.

 _Seal,_ the voice says.

Itachi feels for it, brushing his fingers over the band again and again. _There’s no seal._

 _Seal,_ it repeats.

 _There_ isn’t _one._

The fuzziness vibrates, and Itachi feels it seep deeper into his brain. _Seal,_ it insists.

“There’s no _fucking_ —”

Something suddenly scrambles across the room: papers shuffle, floorboards creak. “Hey — no, no, hey, _stop_ — Itachi, _Itachi_.” Warm, calloused hands wrap themselves around Itachi’s arms, pulling them firmly down and away from the blindfold.

Itachi jerks, startled from the abruptness of the contact more than anything. The fuzziness in his mind twitches. _Get away,_ it says. _You need to get away._

Itachi pulls back without giving it a second thought, struggling to rip his arms out of the person’s grasp. But the hold only tightens.

“Stop, _stop_! — Itachi, it’s me, it’s Shisui.”

The words hit a wall in his mind, though; he hears them, but he doesn’t process them, doesn’t _understand_ them. He knows only one thing in that moment, and it’s that he needs to _get away_.

He swings a leg around, and the side of his shin connects with what feels like a hip. The person grunts, but their hold doesn’t break. If anything, their grip gets even tighter, nails biting into the soft skin of Itachi’s forearms. “ _Motherfucking_ — fuck — _stop_!”

But Itachi is already pulling his knee up, fully intending to drive the bottom of his shoe straight into the person’s gut —

The fuzziness in his mind abruptly shrinks back, collecting its tendrils from around his brain and settling into a tight ball at the back of his skull. A sudden clarity cuts through Itachi as soon as it retreats — his leg falls limply to the side, his arms sag. And he pulls in a choked breath.

_Shisui._

It’s only then that Itachi realizes his entire body is trembling, that his heart is trying to pound its way straight through his chest.

Shisui — and _of course_ it’s Shisui, how Itachi couldn’t tell...how Itachi didn’t _know_ that Shisui was the one...after he even — gods, after he even _told_ him, he said his name and Itachi still didn’t realize...still _attacked_ him and — _Shisui_ moves his hands so they’re wrapped around Itachi’s wrists instead of his forearms, his thumbs resting lightly above Itachi’s hammering pulse. It’s comfortable and familiar and _how didn’t I realize_?

“Hey,” Shisui says. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. I’m right here.”

 _You’re okay._ Itachi takes a gulping breath, shakes his head. “What —”

“You’re not blind,” Shisui interrupts. “It’s just a blindfold, okay? Suou needs you to wear it for a day or two, and then you can take it off. Okay? You’re fine. _You’re fine_.”

He shakes his head again, but the words are sinking in now, and he already feels his body reacting to them. _You’re not blind._ His breathing begins to even out, the panic dulling ever so slightly.

But it’s a small comfort. Because he still can’t see, and he still doesn’t know what’s happening. “Where am I?” he mumbles.

“Suou’s cabin,” Shisui says. “I brought you here. After...” But he stops suddenly, swallowing hard. And Itachi can almost picture the words falling down his throat.

_After?_

“After you...fuck. It’s...”

Itachi waits. He waits and he waits and — _fuck_ , he wishes he could see Shisui’s face right now. That way he could at least tell what Shisui is thinking and gauge for himself whether this situation is bad or if it’s _really_ bad and — _fuck, what happened?_

Shisui doesn’t end up continuing the sentence, though. But his hands squeeze gently around Itachi’s wrists, and Itachi can recognize the gesture for what it is — _comfort._

The panic surges. “Shisui —”

“What were you thinking?” Shisui asks quietly. His voice is strained, the words coming out almost stifled, like he’s speaking them straight through his teeth. _Anger,_ Itachi realizes. _Anger and fear._ “Gods, Itachi, what were you fucking thinking?”

_What was I thinking?_

The fuzziness at the back of Itachi’s head uncoils slightly, then curls back in on itself. And he’s momentarily distracted by it because that _feeling_...gods, he _knows_ that feeling, and —

Itachi’s eyes widen. Because just like Shisui — _just like Shisui_ — he realizes he somehow didn’t immediately recognize the feeling of a god in his mind.

The fuzziness — _the deity,_ he corrects, because what else would it be, what else would be in his head right now? — unfurls again, like it’s _pleased_ he’s remembered, is finally able to acknowledge it for what it is. Not a fuzziness or an inner voice or whatever the hell else Itachi possibly could’ve misconstrued it as — and what else could it have been? What else could it have _possibly fucking been_? — but a god.

And that’s when Itachi remembers.

_I-ta-chi._

He’d opened himself up to the deity, had allowed his Sharingan to bleed to life in what was practically an open invitation for it. Because he couldn’t wait anymore, couldn’t help himself — he _needed_ to know who this deity was and what it wanted, needed it as much as he needed air in his lungs. And Shisui wasn’t paying attention and Father wasn’t supposed to come for him until later for the meeting. Itachi had time, precious _time_ , and so he used it. And the deity came. It _came_ , settling it’s weight right there in the back of his skull.

 _Who are you?_ he’d asked as he reached towards it, the anticipation burning at him.

But, just like before, it moved away. _Not yet._

_Why?_

But it just repeated the same gods-damned thing: _Not yet._

 _Then when?_ Itachi had demanded.

 _Soon,_ it told him. But that — that hadn’t been good enough. So Itachi kept _trying_ , thought he could maybe corner it in his mind and at least get a sense of its energy if it wasn’t going to give him a gods-damned answer. But the deity...the deity just kept _evading_ him, sidestepping his lunging awareness with a devilish, infuriating ease. _Not yet. Not yet._

Yet it didn’t go so far as to leave. Why, Itachi didn’t know. If it wouldn’t talk to him or let him channel it, then there seemed to be no good reason for it to remain inside his head. But it did; it _stayed_. And Itachi started to think that, maybe, it stayed because it was _enjoying_ itself, treating this all as if it were merely a game, as if it was having fun watching Itachi struggle to make sense of it and what it wanted. The thought had only fueled Itachi’s mania, had only made him more determined to get _something_ out of the deity. And so he’d kept trying, had kept chasing it round and round his gods-damned head until he was dizzy from it.

And then —

And then.

A blurry memory of Shisui’s wide-eyed expression floats to the forefront of Itachi’s mind. The shock of power that had torn through Itachi’s body as he locked eyes with Shisui, the deity suddenly coming _closer_ , letting Itachi’s awareness brush against it and shoving its power out through his eyes. It had only been a small burst of energy, a mere fraction of the power it was truly capable of. But even that was numbing — Itachi can still feel the way the energy had _burned_ through his eyes, the way it had burned through his _mind_.

 _Not. Yet,_ the deity repeated.

And after that? Nothing.

Itachi bites hard at the inside of his cheek. Communing with the deity was supposed to be quick. Easy. Nothing he couldn’t handle. And he _could_ handle it — he _was_ handling it, but now...

The deity wriggles, settles itself more comfortably against the back of his head. _How are you still here?_

It preens at his thought. _Not yet._

“Suou examined you,” Shisui says suddenly. Itachi tilts his head up towards his voice — because apparently he’d looked _down_ at some point, though he can’t remember when. “He said there was some damage leftover from the deity you channeled.”

Something jerks in Itachi’s chest. “Damage,” he repeats.

The deity fidgets.

“Suou said it could get better on its own, but we...we wanted to make sure.”

_Wanted to make sure._

Shisui keeps talking. “He put a seal on you,” he says. “To keep your Sharingan activated. The blindfold is supposed to be reflecting the spiritual energy back and it...it creates some sort of...feedback loop? Or something or...I don’t know,” Shisui sighs. “Suou only half explained it to me. It’s supposed to heal your eyes, either way.” It’s then that Shisui’s thumbs start rubbing small lines along the inside of Itachi’s wrists. Up and down. Up and down. It’s distracting, especially paired with the deity’s wriggling. But Itachi forces himself to ignore it, forces himself to focus on Shisui’s _words_. “Suou wants to observe you for a few more hours to make sure it isn’t going to start overloading your eyes again, but after that, you can —”

Itachi’s mind snags on those words: _overloading your eyes again._ And he lets himself get distracted. “What?”

Shisui stops, his fingers stilling. “...you can go home after Suou —”

“ _No._ What about this overloading my eyes?”

Shisui doesn’t say anything, but his fingers — his fingers _twitch_ against Itachi’s skin. And, gods, if only Itachi could see his _face_ — “Shisui, what about my eyes?”

Saliva _clicks_ in Shisui’s mouth. “Listen, Itachi —”

The anger comes quick, quicker than Itachi expected. But he acts on it nonetheless, tears his wrists out of Shisui’s loosened grasp with a ferocity that surprises even him. “What did you have Suou do?” he demands.

Shisui sighs. “Just — _listen_ —”

“Fuck you,” Itachi seethes. “What is this going to do to my eyes?”

The floor groans. “Relax, okay —”

“Don’t tell me to _relax_. What did you —”

“The odds of you recovering by yourself were only fifty-five percent,” Shisui says, talking right over him. “ _Fifty-five percent_ , Itachi. This treatment could substantially increase those odds if your Sharingan takes to it —”

The hysteria surges. “ _If_?”

“ _Gods_ —” there’s a shift of fabric, “— would you _shut up_ and let me fucking _explain_ this, holy shit —”

Itachi ignores him, the rage so loud in his head that he’s practically lightheaded from it. “What happens if my Sharingan doesn’t take to it, Shisui?”

Shisui’s breaths are coming hard. “ _Stop fucking_ — your eyes are going to be able to fucking handle it, alright? So can you stop fucking obsessing over your gods-damned _fucking_ Sharingan for five fucking seconds while I —”

Itachi blindly reaches out, and he actually manages to get his hand around the front of Shisui’s shirt. He yanks at it. “ _What did you do to my eyes_?”

“What did _I_ fucking do?” Hot breath ghosts across Itachi’s face, spit landing on his skin as Shisui leans in close. “What did _you_ do, Itachi?” he growls.

Itachi clenches his jaw. “I had it under control.”

Shisui snorts, the air rolling down Itachi’s arm. “Clearly.”

The fury burns from his chest all the way up to his face. His fingers dig harder into Shisui’s shirt, and he leans in even closer. “I did. Until _you_ interrupted me.”

Itachi is close enough to Shisui that he doesn’t miss the way his breath catches at the comment. _Good._

“Which deity was it?” Shisui grinds out, his voice thin. Hollow.

The deity moves, it’s interest in the conversation evidently piqued. It catches Itachi off-guard, his attention having been wholly trained on Shisui and his boiling anger. He barely stops himself from twitching, but his eyes do widen. And in that moment, he’s almost thankful for the blindfold.

“Fuck you,” Itachi bites out, shoving Shisui back before he can feel Itachi’s hand shaking against his chest.

Shisui doesn’t move much; he barely takes a step back but, at the very least, he’s not in Itachi’s face anymore. “It was the goddess, wasn’t it? From your mission?”

The deity shifts. And Itachi doesn’t answer. _The goddess?_

Shisui must take his silence as confirmation. “Gods-damn it, Itachi,” he mutters, and Itachi imagines him wiping a hand over his face, his eyes wide as he presses his palm against his mouth.

Itachi stays quiet. _He doesn’t know,_ he realizes. Shisui has no idea that the goddess has nothing to do with this, that it’s all been the greater deity that had confronted him in the Reikai. Because why would he? Itachi didn’t tell him.

And if there was a time to tell Shisui... _gods_ , this would be it. Undoubtedly. Especially since the deity is still in his head and Itachi can’t — Itachi can’t _get rid of it_ , not if he can’t deactivate his Sharingan because of Suou’s seal.

The deity uncurls a tendril. Then pulls it back.

Itachi’s lips part, and he takes a breath. Because he’s going to tell Shisui what’s actually happening, he — he _has_ to tell him, but —

_“Suou said it could get better on its own, but we...we wanted to make sure.”_

Itachi shuts his mouth. Because Shisui would do anything to protect him, even at the cost of damaging his Sharingan. Gods, he already had Suou do something that could harm his eyes, all because of damage that could’ve resolved by itself. If Shisui found out about this deity...what would he ask Suou to do next? How far would he go to force the deity out of Itachi’s head, to make sure it couldn’t commune with Itachi ever again?

Itachi can’t risk that.

So Itachi takes a breath. And he lies. “It was fine. I’ve channeled her before.”

“ _Barely_ ,” Shisui snaps, entirely unaware of Itachi’s inner struggle. “You _barely_ channeled her before. Fuck, you might’ve even damaged your fucking mind that first time — you know that, right? That this might not all be because of the stunt you pulled in your fucking room? That _maybe_ —”

Itachi scoffs at the exaggeration. “I had a _headache_. That’s hardly —”

“— _that maybe_ this damage has already been festering for fucking _days_ , and you just made it worse by fucking channeling her _again_ —”

“Gods, Shisui — _it was a headache_ —”

“And — _and_ — you fucking did this shit, after you fucking _told me_ —”

Itachi bristles, slowly but surely regaining his footing in the argument. “After I told you _what_? I never said I wouldn’t —”

“You told me you would be fucking careful!” Shisui shouts. His breath returns to Itachi’s face, and the table underneath him groans as Shisui leans his weight on it.

“I _was_ —”

“ _You_ —” But Shisui cuts himself off with a dry, sardonic laugh. “ _Gods_. You’re a fucking moron, you know that?”

Itachi digs his fingers into the table, his insides boiling. “ _I had it under_ —”

“Why couldn’t you just wait?” Shisui wonders, incredulous. “Why the _fuck_ couldn’t you just _wait_? If you’d just fucking _asked_ me, we could’ve gone to the fucking Reikai and —”

“And what? Dealt with it when you weren’t high?” Itachi snarls, and he says it — gods, _why_ he says it, he doesn’t know, he just...he just _does_ , because it’s not like they’ve never fought and insulted each other before, but —

Shisui’s breath catches. And he falls silent.

Itachi’s eyes widen behind the blindfold. _I shouldn’t have said that._

 _No,_ the deity agrees, though Itachi can’t help but think that it seems rather pleased he did.

Shisui doesn’t move away from the table, but he also doesn’t saying anything. The only reason Itachi still knows he’s there at all is because he can feel his breath on his face. And Itachi isn’t sure whether that’s a good or a bad sign, isn’t sure whether Shisui’s just shocked by the vitriol behind the remark or if it had actually _hurt_ him.

_If I could just see his face._

But he can’t. He _can’t_ , and Shisui still isn’t insulting him back or telling him to fuck off and _shit, I crossed a line just now_.

 _I didn’t mean it,_ he thinks. And he’s about to say that — he _is_ , but — but he hears the sound of a door opening and Father’s deep timbre rises from across the room. And Itachi freezes. “You were supposed to get me when he woke up.”

Shisui takes a breath, and Itachi nearly cringes when he hears the way it shudders in his lungs. “Sorry,” he grunts.

Father’s voice is devoid of any forgiveness. “If you could give us a moment alone.”

Shisui doesn’t immediately answer. But then Itachi hears him push away from the table, feels his warmth disappear from the air around him. “Yeah. Sure.”

 _Wait — I’m sorry. I’m sorry._ But he can’t get the words out, the deity prodding at the left side of his brain and — _shit_ — Shisui’s already walking away, the floor protesting with every step and —

 _His stride is off,_ Itachi realizes dimly. It’s uneven, the weight landing too heavily on Shisui’s left leg. The toe of his shoe drags when he lifts it, settles clumsily against the floor when he puts it down. _He’s hurt._

Itachi tries to think back. He only remembers hitting Shisui’s hip with his leg; and it was his right side, not his left. So this — this has to be from something else, some other —

“You told me it was Koujin,” Father says.

All thoughts of Shisui and his leg fly straight out of Itachi’s skull. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. _Shit._

The deity pulls back.

“Well?” Father demands when Itachi doesn’t answer.

 _Say something._ “I didn’t want you to worry,” Itachi mumbles, scratching at the table with his nail because he’s not ready for this line of questioning. Not in the slightest.

 _I can get myself out of this,_ he tells himself. _I just need to stay calm, and focus on Father’s voice._

“You didn’t want me to worry,” Father repeats, sounding distinctly unimpressed with the sentiment. “Tell me: did you channel Koujin at all on the mission, or was it only this goddess?”

“It was both,” Itachi lies, because better Father thinks that he only concealed part of the truth instead of having outright lied about it. He just hates the fact that he can’t see his father’s face, that he can’t immediately tell whether he believes him or not.

_Just breathe. Breathe, and focus on his voice._

“Why did you go to the shrine after your mission?” Father asks and — _shit, shit_ — his voice gives nothing away. It’s entirely apathetic, entirely _monotone_ , and Itachi feels his skin begin to prickle, his composure starting to slip.

“To speak to Koujin,” he answers. And he doesn’t hesitate — he doesn’t _hesitate_ , because he can’t tell what Father’s thinking. And — _shit_ — he doesn’t know whether his father is more or less inclined to believe him at the moment, if being caught in the first lie is going to make Father think that he’s going to reveal the entire truth now, or if everything he says is going to be treated with caution and mistrust, if he’s going to have to _convince_ his father of every word he speaks from now until the end of time. So he errs on the side of caution; he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t give his father any reason to think he’s being anything other than truthful.

Father doesn’t speak. He stays silent, and Itachi — _Itachi_ sure as hell isn’t going to say anything, not when he doesn’t know where he stands.

_Breathe. Just breathe._

The deity stretches itself out. _Speak,_ it urges.

Itachi catches himself beginning to shake his head, and he abruptly stills. _No._

 _Speak,_ it repeats, a tendril reaching to curve around the underside of his brain.

_No._

The tendril digs _in_ and Itachi feels his entire body twitch. A splinter from the table drives into his finger. _Speak._

_I’m not going to —_

“You’re going to be taking an indefinite leave of absence from your ANBU duties,” Father says suddenly. “I’ll take care of the paperwork since you are clearly in no condition to do so.”

Itachi’s attention jerks away from the deity. “What?”

“Additionally, when this is over and your eyes have healed, you will no longer be meeting with the Hokage or his councilors to discuss clan matters. If they make any attempt to contact you, you are to let me know immediately. Do I make myself clear?”

Itachi balks. “Wait —”

But Father ignores him completely. “Suou will be here to examine you shortly. Try and refrain from causing yourself any further damage in the meantime.”

“ _Father_ —” But he’s cut off by the quiet sound of a door _clicking_ shut. And so Itachi is left sitting there. Alone. In the dark. And absolutely gobsmacked.

The panic follows soon after.

 _I did something. I must have — fuck. Something tipped him off, something I said or did and — shit._ Shit _. What did I do? What the hell did I do?_ He goes over the conversation in his head, trying to figure out where — _where_ the hell his misstep had been and —

_“Why did you go to the shrine?”_

His chest all but caves in at the realization. _He already knew the answer._

Itachi bites hard at the inside of his cheek. “Gods-damn it.”

The deity pulls its tendril away, and he feels it settle back against the base of his skull. It seems pleased.

_Not yet._


	8. The Fragility of Minds and Eggs

**Sasuke**

Today is Monday.

Monday.

Mon-day.

Sasuke chews the word over in his tired mind, flipping it this way and that as he stares listlessly at the calendar pinned up on his wall. The word starts to lose meaning the more he thinks about it, the letters that once fit together so familiarly starting to feel clunky and foreign in his head. It even starts to look out of place on his calendar, printed there in tiny capital letters between _Sunday_ and _Tuesday_. Like someone made a mistake putting it there. Like Monday has, for all intents and purposes, ceased to exist.

And yet, Sasuke knows without a doubt that today is Monday. It’s an indisputable fact, one that Sasuke is well aware won’t change regardless of how much he thinks about the word or stares at it on his wall. Today is Monday. Monday, Monday, Monday.

Not that Monday is a bad day. It’s just another day, after all, and while it does mean that the weekend is over and he has to go to school, he doesn’t really mind that, either. He _likes_ the Academy, likes that he’s learning how to be a shinobi. Some of the lessons are too easy, admittedly, and he occasionally finds himself a bit bored by Iruka Sensei’s tangents, but he rarely leaves without having learned something. Plus — though he won’t admit it out loud — it’s nice to go somewhere where he’s _the best_ at something, even if that’s just compared to the rest of his classmates.

At home, Sasuke’s never the best. Not even close.

All that being said, Sasuke still desperately wishes that today wasn’t Monday. He’d be beyond thrilled if it could just be Sunday again, or maybe even Saturday. Either one would do, just so long as he doesn’t have to get out from underneath his covers, doesn’t have to get himself changed and ready so he can go to the Academy today. Because, while he’s eager to learn and train and prove that he _does_ have what it takes to be a shinobi, what he wants more than anything right now — more than _absolutely anything_ — is to get just _a few_ more hours of sleep.

Sasuke’s mouth widens into a large, jaw-popping yawn, his eyes squeezing shut. He peels them back open and shifts his attention to the blaring red digits of his alarm clock, hoping — _praying_ , really, that somehow the alarm that sounded a few minutes ago was a mistake. That it’s still the middle of the night, and Sasuke is more than free to go back to sleep if he wants to. And he wants to — _gods_ , does he want to.

But the numbers are clear and resolute: 6:37. There’s no mistake. Today is Monday, and Sasuke needs to get up if he doesn’t want to be late for the Academy.

Sasuke doesn’t get up. He groans instead, turning his face into his pillow. It’s warm and soft and it’s just so, _so_ tempting to fall back asleep. Class starts at 8:30. 8:30, which is —

Sasuke peeks over at his clock: _6:39_

— which is exactly one hour and fifty one minutes from now. One hour and fifty one minutes for him to get himself ready and walk to the Academy. He’s usually up and out of bed by 6:30, and usually tries to get to the Academy sometime before 8:20. So he has a bit of time, can spend a few extra minutes resting. Because he’s just...he’s just so _tired_. And so Sasuke closes his eyes, tells himself he’ll just rest for an extra minute. He’ll get up at 6:40 — a nice, round time, ten minutes after his alarm first went off. And then he’ll start getting ready...

One minute later, Sasuke blinks his eyes open. His lids stick together a bit, and he has to reach up a hand to wipe the gunk out of them. But he — gods, does Sasuke feel a lot better, now. _Amazingly_ better, actually, far more refreshed and rested.

Sasuke twists under his covers, silently congratulating himself on making the fantastic decision to rest for a little while longer. He’s more than ready to go to the Academy, now, to _seize the day_ , as Iruka Sensei would say. And all because he decided to sleep for an extra minute —

9:04

Sasuke freezes, his eyes locked on his alarm clock.

9:04

9:04

9:04, 9:04, 9:04 9:04 9:04 9:049:049:049:049:04

He stares. And stares. Because the numbers are going to change — they’re _going_ to change. The nine is going to turn into a six, and the zero and four are going to switch places right before his eyes and transform back into a forty. Because he only closed his eyes for a minute. It was a minute, it was _only for a minute_.

The clock changes.

9:05

The horror of the situation drenches him as thoroughly as if someone had come in and thrown a bucket of water on him. He yelps and flings his covers back, launching himself out of bed. _I’m late, I’m late, I’m late, I’m late, I’m late, I’m —_

He stumbles over to his dresser, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to get there. The drawer nearly falls onto the floor when he yanks at it, but he pays it no mind as he haphazardly grabs the first shirt and pair of shorts he can get his hands on.

 _Late, late, late —_ Sasuke changes as fast as he can, doesn’t even bother taking the time to properly put away his pajamas, tossing them on the mess that is his bed instead. Part of him feels bad about it, knows that Mother will be disappointed once she sees the sorry state Sasuke has left his room in this morning. Though, she won’t be nearly as disappointed as she’ll be once she realizes he overslept and has missed over a half hour of class.

 _But why didn’t Mother wake me up?_ he thinks desperately. _Why wouldn’t she have come and gotten me when I didn’t come to the kitchen for breakfast, or when she didn’t hear me in the bathroom or see me walk out the door? Why, why, why, why!?_

He spares a panicked glance at his clock.

9:07

Sasuke tears out of his room. _If I hurry, I can get there before 10:00. Maybe before 9:50 if I skip breakfast or — or maybe I could even get there by 9:40 if I run really, really fast._ That way, he’ll have only missed about an hour of class, since Iruka Sensei usually spends about ten minutes taking attendance. Which isn’t a problem — it _shouldn’t_ be a problem, because they’re just supposed to be going over the _Leaf History_ textbook reading, and Sasuke understood it perfectly well and —

Sasuke skids to a halt halfway down the hallway. He doubles back to his room, darts to his bedside table and snatches the _Leaf History_ textbook off of it.

The clock glares at him: 9:08.

He runs back down the hall, his steps thunderous. But he hardly cares at the moment — all he cares about is the fact that he’s late, he’s late, he’s _late_.

_I can make it by 9:40. I can definitely make it by 9:40._

Though —

_I’m going to have to make an excuse for why I’m late. I can’t tell Iruka Sensei I overslept; I’m going to need to come up with something else, something that doesn’t make him think I’m a slacker._

What could work? What could work, what could work, what could work, what could work?

 _I’ll tell him — I’ll tell him that I wasn’t feeling well this morning. Or, or that Mother needed me to do something or — or — I can tell him there was a clan meeting — a_ clan meeting _, yeah! — that’s what I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him there was an early meeting and I had to be there because — because I had to go, because of Father, and Iruka Sensei will understand, he will, because it’s happened before. And I’ll just tell him that Mother and Father forgot to write me a note excusing me for the morning and that I’m sorry but I’m here now and I did my homework and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, and I promise that it won’t ever happen again._

Sasuke suddenly realizes that there are voices coming from the kitchen, low and hushed. And another idea pops into his head.

_Maybe Shisui’s here._

He heads towards the voices. _If Shisui’s here, I can ask him to take me to the Academy. He’s fast, faster than even Itachi. He could get me to class in no time, and then I’ll have only missed —_

But Sasuke gets to the kitchen. And Shisui isn’t there.

Sasuke’s still breathing hard when Father and Mother look up at him. They’re both seated at the table, though Father’s not in his usual spot. He’s in Sasuke’s spot, actually, his hands tucked into his lap. Which is hardly the most upsetting thing about all this because — because Father isn’t supposed to still be here at all. He should — he should be at work by now, or — or — or at least not here _, at the house. He should be out. He should be out he should be out he should be out he should be —_

Father frowns, and Sasuke’s stomach lurches. “Why aren’t you at the Academy?” he asks, and his voice is stern and gruff and it makes Sasuke’s breath catch in his throat. 

Sasuke opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. But no words will come out. And Father’s frown deepens.

A jolt of panic shoots through Sasuke and, briefly, it occurs to him to lie. He could tell Father that class started late today, or that maybe the Academy is closed entirely for some obscure holiday. And Father might — he _might_ believe him, because surely Father doesn’t actually know the Academy schedule and Sasuke never, _ever_ cuts class. So maybe — _maybe_ he won’t have to admit to Father that he did something as irresponsible as oversleeping, and then Father won’t have another reason to think he’ll be a bad ninja.

Sasuke’s panicked brain considers the option as he stares at Father. He has to decide, has to make a decision _now_ , or else —

“Oh gods,” Mother suddenly says, and Sasuke can barely breathe. The realization is like a gut punch. 

_She’s going to tell him. She’s going to tell him that I overslept, and then he’s going to know I’m a failure._ And it’s just made all the worse, because Sasuke knows — he _knows_ — that Itachi’s probably never done something so careless.

Sasuke braces himself.

But Mother doesn’t scold him. “I didn’t...I didn’t come wake you up,” is all she mumbles. Nothing about Sasuke being irresponsible, or not getting up right when his alarm went off. She doesn’t even seem to be looking at him, actually: Sasuke can see her gazing at something from the corner of his eye, something that’s back over her shoulder. He’s guessing that it’s the wall clock, but he can’t seem to rip his eyes away from Father’s to check.

Father ends up being the one to look away, releasing Sasuke from the prison of his gaze to look at Mother. The frown is still on his face, and his brow begins to furrow. Mother, however, pays him no mind, is hardly as affected by the heaviness of Father’s eyes as Sasuke is. And Sasuke can see now that she is, in fact, staring at the clock. He spares a quick glance at it himself.

9:12

“I didn’t come wake you up,” Mother repeats, dazed.

Father’s hand twitches in his lap. “Mikoto.” And there’s something about the way Father says Mother’s name, something that makes goosebumps break out along Sasuke’s arms.

Again, though, Mother ignores him. She turns her attention on Sasuke instead, her eyes wide and her mouth parted. “I didn’t...I didn’t wake you up and I...didn’t make you anything for breakfast or...or for lunch or...”

Sasuke doesn’t move. Neither does Father, for that matter. And Mother just stares. She stares, and stares, and stares.

Father leans towards her slightly. When he speaks, Sasuke thinks he almost sounds... _wary_. “Mikoto, it’s —”

Mother gets up in a rush, and Sasuke finds himself flinching. “Oh gods, you’re — you’re late for the Academy. What am I — I need to get you something for breakfast, and — and for lunch.” She hurries over to the fridge, pulling the door open and bending down to look inside. “I can — um, I can make you —”

“It’s alright, Mikoto,” Father tries. But Mother doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Um, there might be...might be something leftover from yesterday that I could heat up for you?” She reaches a hand inside the fridge, starts hastily shuffling containers around. “Or there’s, um, there’re eggs? Want some eggs for breakfast? And for lunch, um. For lunch, I can...” She runs a hand through her hair, gripping it tightly between her fingers, and Sasuke doesn’t miss the _gods-damn it_ she mumbles under her breath.

It’s at that moment that Sasuke realizes that he’s never actually heard his mother curse before.

“Mikoto,” Father says, starting to get up from the table.

“I can maybe drop off lunch at the Academy for you later today?” Mother looks over her shoulder at Sasuke, and the frantic energy in her eyes makes his skin crawl. “Would that be okay? I’ll leave it at the front desk, and you can go grab it at the beginning of your lunch hour?”

Sasuke starts nodding his head automatically, an indication that sure, yes, that’s — that’s okay, that’s definitely okay, and Sasuke will definitely pick up his lunch at the front desk even though there isn’t actually a front desk anymore, that was only there for the first week of classes and Sasuke isn’t actually sure where parents are supposed to drop anything off for their kids to pick up but he also feels like something terrible will happen if he tries to tell Mother that so he keeps his mouth shut and just nods, nods, nods. _That’s okay, yes, that’s okay._

Mother turns away from him, her hand darting back inside the fridge. She swipes a carton of eggs off the shelf and Sasuke doesn’t dare mention that he really doesn’t like eggs all that much — Mother could put absolutely anything on his plate and he’d eat it at this point. So he just watches as she shoves the refrigerator door shut, and tries not to flinch when he hears the contents on the door clatter with the force of it.

That’s when Father walks over to her. “Mikoto.”

Mother turns away from him, moves over to the stovetop and leans down to grab a pan out of one of the cabinets underneath it. “He’s late, Fugaku,” she says coldly. “I need to make him breakfast.”

Father sighs. “You don’t have to —”

Mother slams the pan on one of the burners, and Sasuke flinches. “Are you going to do it?” she shoots back at him.

Sasuke can see the tightness in Father’s jaw even from where he’s standing at the doorway. But Mother just turns back to the stove and flicks the knob to the side, flames sparking to life underneath the pan. No one speaks, and Sasuke wants to leave — he _desperately_ wants to leave, but he feels frozen to the spot, the tension in the room tying down his limbs and weighing down his body. And he can’t stop the feeling that’s creeping up his spine, that twinge of guilt as he starts to realize that what’s happening right now is his fault. All because he didn’t get up when his alarm went off.

Mother rips the egg carton open, reaching inside to grab one of the eggs. But something must go wrong and she doesn’t get a good grip on it and it slips right between her fingers, falling, falling, _falling_ until it smashes on the floor, yolk and egg white spattering across Mother’s feet.

“Oh — _gods-damn it_!” Mother cries, taking a step back and running her hands through her hair. And that’s...that’s _twice_ , now, twice that he’s heard his mother curse.

 _Please stop,_ Sasuke wants to say. _I’m sorry. I’m sorry._ But he can’t, the words stuck in his throat and strangling him.

Mother reaches for a towel lying in the corner of the counter, then. And Sasuke watches in mute horror as she pulls back far too fast, catching the corner of the egg carton with the side of her hand.

The entire container crashes to the ground, flips midair so the eggs land directly on the floor.

Sasuke can’t breathe. Part of him expects Mother to curse again, to release a torrent of obscenities that might even put Shisui’s colorful vocabulary to shame. The thought makes the guilt boiling in his stomach writhe. _My fault._ Because none of this would be happening if he hadn’t been late. Mother wouldn’t be rushing to make him breakfast, wouldn’t have even pulled out the eggs in the first place and _it’s my fault, it’s all my fault._

But Mother doesn’t curse. She just puts her hands over her mouth, the towel twisted in between her fingers. And she stares down at the mess at her feet. “Oh gods,” she whispers. “Oh gods.”

Sasuke doesn’t move. Neither does Father. They both just stare at Mother, at the carton of broken eggs on the floor. The entire world seems to stop at that moment, seems to boil down to the three of them there in the kitchen.

_My fault._

Mother abruptly falls to her knees, frantically scooping pieces of eggshell into her hand. “Can one of you — can someone please get me the sponge, and — and —”

Father crouches down next to her. He seems to hesitate, but he places a hand on Mother’s shoulder. “Mikoto.”

She shrugs him off immediately, grabs at the empty carton and starts putting the pieces of egg into it. “ _Don’t._ Just — I need to clean this up, and then I need to make Sasuke breakfast —”

Sasuke wants to interject, to tell her that, no, it’s fine, she doesn’t need to make him anything and he’s sorry for causing trouble, he’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s _sorry_ , and —

Mother keeps talking, keeps picking up eggshell after eggshell. “— and then I need — I need to check on Itachi — and _I need to clean this_ , Fugaku, so would you please — _please_ just go, and help Sasuke get ready —”

_I don’t need help getting ready, I can go get ready myself, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry —_

“— or check — go check on Itachi, and make sure he’s not — that he’s _okay_ , and —”

Father takes hold of her arm. “Mikoto, _stop_.”

Mother jerks away from him again, but her foot moves and it bangs against the carton, jostling it and sending the eggshells collected there scattering across the floor. She doesn’t curse again, but she does make a sound, deep in her throat, that sends chills running down Sasuke’s spine.

_I’m sorry._

Father puts his hand back on her arm. “Stop,” he repeats. And he says it so _gently_ , as if the letters are as delicate as the eggshells.

Or maybe as if Mother is.

Mother doesn’t move away from Father this time. Instead, she sits back on her heels, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth as she stares down at the broken eggs. And Sasuke can do nothing but stare as she starts to cry.

Her sobs are an awful, visceral sound, somehow made worse by the fact that they’re muffled by her hand. She folds herself nearly in half, keeling over so her hair falls over her shoulders, the ends dragging in the egg. It’s horrible, Sasuke thinks, seeing her curled up like that, seeing her crack right there in front of him. He feels sick, like his organs are being twisted inside out, because he didn’t — he never would’ve woken up late if he thought this would happen. He would’ve gotten up as soon as his alarm went off, wouldn’t have even _considered_ staying under the covers for a second longer. This — he doesn’t know what’s happening, or why his mother is so upset by the eggs and breakfast and lunch but she _is_ and — gods — he should’ve just gotten up, why didn’t he _just get up_ —

“ _Sasuke_.” Sasuke jumps at the sound of his father’s voice. He looks over at him, sees that he’s moved closer to Mother, has his hand resting on her back instead of her arm now. But his attention is on Sasuke, and his jaw is set in a hard line and his eyes are stern and —

“I’m sorry,” Sasuke whispers.

He’s not sure if he imagines it, but he thinks Father’s face might soften, ever so slightly. “Go to your room,” he tells him.

Sasuke doesn’t argue — he doesn’t mention the Academy, or that if he left now he could still get there before ten, or the fact that he’s never actually missed a full day of school before and the thought makes his insides feel icky. Sasuke just turns around and walks to his room. And he makes sure to shut the door quietly behind him.

**Shisui**

Fugaku isn’t supposed to be gone for long — a few hours at most, he insisted. Just to bring Itachi home, and then deal with a few other matters. Quick. Easy. He’d be back soon enough, he told Suou. And once he came back, then Shisui could go, and...

...well, then Shisui could...

...he could...

...well.

Suou wasn’t particularly concerned, even though he’d spent the better half of the morning insisting that Shisui go before the gods as soon as possible. Which, in Shisui’s vocabulary, translates to something along the lines of _we need to do this right fucking now_ , but in Suou’s vocabulary, evidently means _we’ll do this in a few hours, after I’ve made a few,_ (and these are Suou’s words, here), _necessary preparations._ Whatever the fuck that means. Either way, Suou was quite alright with Fugaku leaving to go do whatever it is Fugaku claimed he needed to do. Shisui would be sent before the gods when he came back. In the meantime, Suou would prepare, and Shisui — well, according to Suou, Shisui should use the time to try and rest.

 _“You’ll need your energy when you go before the gods to pay your debt, child,”_ Suou told him, his face pinched as he handed Shisui a stack of blankets. _“Try to at least get a bit of sleep.”_

And Shisui — gods, he blames it on the circumstances, on the fact that the danger had mostly passed at that point and Itachi’s imminent demise was no longer hanging over his head and crowding his bones. Itachi’s eyes had taken to the treatment, after all — Suou said so, was absolutely confident that Itachi’s eyes wouldn’t blow up right there inside his skull. Which meant there was an eighty percent chance — _an eighty percent fucking chance_ — that, in a few days time, this would be nothing more than a terrible memory. Itachi’s eyes would heal, no damage leftover from the goddess he channeled, and they could all breathe a sigh of relief at having avoided a terribly close call. And so Shisui’s panic started to ebb, leaving him exhausted and hollow and that — _that_ left just enough empty space in his stomach for a hint of dread to rise up and curdle at the sound of Suou’s words, at the implication behind them.

_To pay your debt._

His debt. His _debt_ , because Shisui owes the gods something now.

The anxiety must have shown on his face, or maybe Suou just _knew_ that Shisui was fucking terrified. Either way, the man’s eyes softened, and he reached out and placed a warm hand on Shisui’s shoulder. _“Rest,”_ he repeated, pushing the blankets closer to Shisui.

Shisui swallowed hard, his throat and chest tight, but he took the blankets nonetheless. And — it was stupid, really. Like, _really_ fucking stupid — but the first thought that went through his head when he took the blankets was _wow, Auntie’s ruined blankets for me forever._ Because Suou’s blankets — gods, Suou’s blankets were fucking awful. They were threadbare in spots and scratchy and musty as all hell and Shisui almost wanted to laugh, wanted to say that he never thought he’d be such a fucking _blanket snob_ but there he fucking was, turning his nose up at some perfectly functional fucking blankets. As if he’s not someone who’s managed to fall asleep in a fucking supply closet and a shitty wooden raft in the middle of the fucking Naka (Itachi loves that fucking Naka story — it’s been years since it happened, and it still makes his cousin fucking cackle). And, well. The sheer stupidity of that doesn’t escape Shisui. Especially since he certainly has more pressing concerns, like the omnipresent celestial beings he’s going to go before in a few hours. It’s _kind of_ fucking funny, if he’s being honest. In an ironic, fucked up sort of way, at least. He thinks Itachi might find it funny, too — or he would, maybe. If he didn’t hate Shisui’s fucking guts at the moment.

... _gods_ , does Shisui wish he had one of Mikoto’s blankets right now.

But he doesn’t — he has Suou’s. And they’re perfectly fine blankets, good enough to get a few hours rest on and, shit, he’s lucky he has fucking anything, really. So he didn’t complain about the fucking blankets and found a nice corner he could curl himself up against because Suou apparently doesn’t have a single piece of furniture for Shisui to lie down on other than that fucking table. Which is sort of fucking weird, if Shisui’s being completely honest, and brings up one too many questions about Suou’s own sleeping arrangements. But it’s fine! It’s absolutely fine, because Shisui told himself to drop it and wrapped himself in the blankets and devoted all of his attention to getting some fucking sleep.

Except, that’s when the problems started. Because he couldn’t — he _can’t_ sleep, because Suou left the cabin and Shisui can’t — there’s nothing to _focus on_ but his own thoughts and on what’s to come and he can’t get away from it, he can’t _fucking get away from it_ , and so he’s not sleeping. He’s just _lying_ there, his arms wrapped around his torso as he stares at Suou’s fucking wall and suffers through the agony his thoughts are inflicting upon his mind.

And it’s awful. It’s absolutely fucking awful. He can’t get the fucking image of Itachi crumpling to the floor out of his head, or the sound of his body smacking against the wood out of his fucking ears. And then — _shit_ , if that isn’t bad enough — he keeps seeing Mikoto, the horror on her face when she rushed into Itachi’s room, evidently roused by the sound of her son’s body hitting the ground. Fugaku tried to stop her, tried to keep her back, but she tore past him and into the room, throwing herself down next to Itachi and pulling his limp body into her lap.

 _“Oh gods,”_ she sobbed. _“Oh gods.”_

And Shisui — Shisui couldn’t fucking move, couldn’t make his body do _anything_ as he stared at Itachi, at the laxity of his limbs and the paleness of his face and — _fuck_. _Fuck_.

Shisui squeezes his eyes shut, tries to force the images out of his fucking head. _Itachi’s okay, now. Suou’s treatment is working, and Itachi’s okay. So stop thinking about it. Just stop fucking thinking about it._

But he can still hear Mikoto’s wails, can still see her crying and struggling to pick Itachi up off the ground. _“Why are you just standing there?!”_ she shrieked at them. _“Help me!”_

 _Stop,_ Shisui thinks, curling in on himself. _Think about something else. Just think about something else._ Anything will do, just — just not _that_. Anything but that. He can think about these shitty fucking blankets or the fact that the entire side of his body is starting to fall asleep because Suou’s floor is hard as fuck or — or —

Or he can think about the price he’s going to have to pay to the gods soon.

Shisui’s body goes cold.

It’s an odd thought, that the gods are going to demand something from him. As if Shisui could possibly have anything immortal deities might want. He can’t even — he can’t even _fathom_ what the price might be, what they’re going to demand from him. And for what? Because Suou helped Itachi? He helped Itachi, before he...

_“There’s a procedure for this, and if it’s bypassed —”_

A procedure. So because Suou didn’t do _something_ before helping Itachi, Shisui now owes the gods. Which...okay? Sure? It’s not like Shisui knows shit about Suou’s powers, not beyond what he’s actually witnessed firsthand. And even _that_ he doesn’t fully understand. The seals Suou uses during the enucleations, the seals he put on Itachi just last night to heal his eyes...it’s beyond Shisui’s comprehension. It’s beyond _anyone’s_ comprehension. He doesn’t — he’s never known the source of it, had assumed it was some age old secret technique passed between those tasked with overseeing the Sharingan. But he...he didn’t think that the gods were directly _involved_ in any of it. How the fuck...he doesn’t even know how that would _work_. Like — like Suou has to ask the gods for permission before treating a Sharingan? Like his abilities and knowledge aren’t his own? Like there’s a contract with the gods that Suou’s entered into, an agreement that allows him to reach into a separate source of power and energy, but only in return for... _something_?

Shisui...Shisui _guesses_ that makes sense. He’s been asked by Suou to make sacrifices in exchange for medicines before, to offer prayers and invocations after their usage. Hell, he had to do it after he gave Itachi the vial after his mission. But he never — gods, he never really _thought_ about it, had figured it was more a matter of tradition than actually something he had to do to appease the gods in exchange for using it.

A chill makes it’s way down Shisui’s body. And he starts to think that maybe he was better off just thinking about Itachi and Mikoto.

Shisui grits his teeth. No. _No._ He’s not going to be a fucking coward about this. Suou needs permission or some shit to heal a fucking Sharingan, and there’s a price to be paid if he doesn’t get it? Fine. Fucking whatever. Shisui can accept that, and he can shoulder the consequences of it no fucking problem. He’d agree to it again without even fucking hesitating because...well, _fuck_. Because it’s _Itachi_. What the fuck else was Shisui supposed to do? _Let_ Suou waste time on fucking procedural bullshit? Gods, who’s to say that the time wasted on those preparations wouldn’t have decreased Itachi’s chances of recovering, wouldn’t have knocked that eighty percent down to seventy five, or maybe even seventy?

 _Eighty fucking percent._ That’s worth it, no matter what the price ends up being. And Shisui should be able to sleep soundly knowing that.

It’s just...well. Then his mind starts wandering again, and he starts thinking about _time wasted_ , starts wondering how much _he_ fucked up Itachi’s chances of recovering by taking too long to get him to Suou. And eighty percent — it’s not terrible, but, fuck, what if it could’ve been ninety percent? Or maybe even ninety five? And maybe it would’ve been, if Shisui had somehow gotten Suou to open up sooner, or if he hadn’t kicked the gods-damned _stupid_ fucking door and —

Shisui bites at his lip, instinctively glances down at his leg. And he winces.

It’s swollen. Swollen and horribly bruised, red and purple splotches covering every inch of skin. The towel is long gone, Suou having wrapped his thigh in an ointment soaked bandage instead. His shoe is gone as well — Shisui had to take it off awhile ago, the squeeze of it against his foot growing spectacularly painful. 

Shisui takes a breath, forces himself to look back at the wall. He’s still not entirely clear on what the actual injury is. Suou hadn’t fully explained it, and Shisui had been too distracted by Itachi’s well-being to ask. All Shisui knows is that there’s a long incision on the back of his thigh, courtesy of Suou when Shisui first came into the cabin, and the rest of the leg...the rest of the leg feels _rotten_. It’s stiff and achy and the more Shisui thinks about it the more _hollow_ it feels, like the muscles and veins were ripped right out, like there’s nothing there but bones wrapped in skin.

The thought does something awful to his insides. And he _knows_ that Suou said it would heal, that it would be fine, but...

But.

 _Fuck._ Maybe Shisui should just go and ask Suou if he’d be willing to give him a vial for it. Something that will maybe numb the limb, or just dull the pain a bit. Which is — it’s a reasonable request, he thinks. Suou can’t — or, well, he _shouldn’t_ — say no to it. It’s not for Shisui’s eyes, yeah, which is the subjective demarcation Suou’s evidently made in regards to giving Shisui any sort of vial, which is fucking bullshit because Shisui’s not — he’s not a gods-damned _addict_ , he can fucking handle a swallow of something, just for his fucking leg.

And, well, if the vial — if it just _happened_ to get him a bit high, then that — well, that wouldn’t be _so_ bad, right? It would stop his fucking mind, keep him from fucking thinking and obsessing, if only for a little while. And why is that so bad to want? Why can’t he — why would Suou want to deny him that?

...or would he? Because actually, now that Shisui’s thinking about it, Suou already technically gave Shisui something. He _already technically gave him something_ , something that sent a quick shock through his mind and left his veins _singing_ and — _shit_ , the effects had only really lasted a second, didn’t fucking buzz him at all, but — but fuck, _fuck_ , even that was fucking glorious, was enough to make the want for _more_ surge up and explode across his chest. So maybe — maybe Suou could give him a bit more. Just a bit! Just so that Shisui can stop — just so that he can stop _thinking_ , just for a few _fucking minutes_. He doesn’t need a lot, just — just a _taste_ , something to take the edge off and —

And suddenly Shisui hears Itachi’s voice in his head, the fucking disgust and disappointment lurking behind his words: _“And what? Dealt with it when you weren’t high?”_

The desire freezes in the cavity of Shisui’s chest, the edges sharpening into shards that drive straight through his bones. The shame pools in his gut, and he can physically feel his failure wrapping itself around his organs.

Shisui takes a breath, tries to force the air down and into his lungs. _No. No more vials. Never fucking again._ Not even after a fucking enucleation. Because maybe — maybe if he’d _been there_ for Itachi, if he hadn’t been stoned out of his fucking mind all day...maybe none of this would’ve fucking happened. Itachi wouldn’t have felt the need to commune with the goddess in his fucking room, and then Shisui wouldn’t have interrupted him and Itachi wouldn’t have accidentally channeled her power into him and then —

_Minori. Minori, Minori, Minori._

Shisui makes a sound, low and pained. His shoulders hunch and his leg _throbs_ and _gods_ it fucking hurts and he wants — he wants a _gods-damned vial_ , more than fucking anything. And he hates that. Hates that even the knowledge that he failed Itachi isn’t enough to stop himself from craving the thing that got him into this fucking mess in the first place.

 _I’m a piece of fucking shit._ An absolute, unadulterated piece of fucking shit that can’t manage to be there for fucking anyone. And now Itachi — Itachi fucking hates him, and Shisui fucking deserves it. He deserves it, because even though Shisui has _tried_ to fucking change, has _tried_ to be better, he’s still the same piece of shit he’s always been, the same piece of shit that’s failed _two_ best friends now.

The only consolation is that this time, at least, the clan won’t spend months congratulating him for his failure. No, this time — gods, if anything were to actually happen to Itachi, if he actually doesn’t recover from this — the clan will be distraught. Hysterical. Mourning the ruination of their _precious prodigy_ , the ruination of his _eyes_. And Shisui will spend every day of the rest of his life wanting to scream because _they never cared about Itachi — they only cared about his eyes. Why did they only ever fucking care about his fucking eyes —_

Something suddenly brushes over his shoulder. “Child.”

Shisui nearly smashes his head against the wall, he jerks away so hard. He twists around fast, his eyes wide and his hand automatically reaching for a weapon in a leg holster that he doesn’t have on.

Suou just blinks down at him. “Were you sleeping?” he asks, a note of surprise in his voice.

Shisui can feel his heart in his throat, reality crashing back into him. “No,” he manages. “I, uh. I wasn’t, I was just...” He lifts himself up on his elbow, glancing out at the room as the dread slinks back through his veins. _To pay your debt._ “Is, uh —” he swallows, “is Fugaku back?”

“Not yet,” Suou tells him gently, and Shisui tries his best to ignore the pity he hears tucked in between the words. “I need you to come with me.”

Shisui’s mouth goes dry. And he knew — he _knew_ this was coming, of course, but he thought that — he thought he maybe had a bit more time, maybe another hour or two before —

_To pay your debt._

Shisui swallows. _The price is going to be worth it,_ he tells himself. _It’s all going to be worth it._

“Okay,” he manages to croak out.

And then Suou surprises him, because he actually gives Shisui a small smile. “It’s nothing bad,” he assures Shisui, standing up. He holds out a hand for Shisui to take. “Come.”

It takes an unfortunately large amount of effort to get Shisui to his feet — his leg is a bitch to maneuver, and while he can put some weight on it, it still _fucking hurts_ and he — well — it wouldn’t hurt to just ask, if —

“I don’t suppose that you’d, uh...” Suou glances at Shisui, a frown already on his face. But Shisui keeps talking. “Uh, that you’d be willing to give me anything for this?” He motions down to his leg, gives Suou what he hopes comes across as an easygoing grin.

Suou’s frown deepens. “I may have a few pain relievers,” he says carefully, and Shisui — Shisui feels his eyes widen, because — because _holy shit_ he didn’t think — he didn’t think Suou would actually — and — shit, he can already feel the anticipation building underneath his skin, can practically see the vial in his hand, can practically _feel_ himself holding it and lifting it to his lips and — “Really?”

Suou nods once, and Shisui’s fucking _giddy_. Fuck, he should’ve asked Suou for something right when he laid down. He could’ve — fuck, this _entire fucking time_ , he could’ve been — and — _shit_ , it doesn’t fucking matter. What’s important is that he’s going to get something _now_ , and he can only hope that it’s something that gets him high as fuck, too, something that pushes his thoughts to the fringes of his mind and leaves him airy and lightheaded and blissfully, _blissfully_ unaware.

Suou’s still staring at him. Then he says something that drives straight through Shisui’s chest, leaving a hole big enough for the giddiness to seep right out of him. “They’re a drugstore variety,” he clarifies.

Shisui doesn’t really mean to say anything, because he doesn’t need a fucking vial, he _doesn’t_ , he just — he just wanted something for his fucking leg, and a drugstore brand will work well enough, but — “Oh,” he breathes.

Suou’s face tightens, his lips pressing together hard. “Shisui —”

“No, no, yeah,” Shisui says quickly, looking away as he tries to compose himself. _Piece of shit. I’m a fucking piece of shit._ “That would be, uh. That would be great. If you, uh. If you have any, I mean.”

He tries not to squirm under Suou’s gaze, because he knows the man is still looking at him — still _staring_ at him, as if Shisui’s...as if he’s...

Suou sighs, then, offers his arm for Shisui to use as a crutch. “I’ll look for it while you take care of this for me.”

There’s relief to be had with those words, he knows, but Shisui’s attention dwells on the second half of it: _while you take care of this for me._

He finds himself hesitating, but he takes Suou’s arm, nonetheless. “What am I taking care of?”

Suou tilts his head towards the door of the cabin. “You’ll see.” And, well. That doesn’t do much for Shisui in terms of reassurance. But Suou starts walking, then, and Shisui figures he doesn’t have much of a choice but to follow.

So they walk outside (well, Suou walks, Shisui hobbles), and Shisui’s mind starts spinning. _Maybe it’s a ritual,_ he thinks, _something I have to do before seeing the gods, or maybe, maybe it’s —_

Realization dawns on him. _It’s going to be a chicken._ And the certainty of it — fuck, Suou’s going to have Shisui sacrifice a chicken. He’s going to have Shisui sacrifice a chicken, and Shisui really, _really_ doesn’t want to sacrifice a fucking chicken. Granted, he’s only ever had to do it twice, but both times were fucking awful. The chickens _struggled_ and _screamed_ and he’s not a fucking vegetarian so he doesn’t know how upset he can reasonably be about it given the fact that he definitely eats chicken at least a few times a week but, holy fuck, _please don’t be a fucking chicken, please, please don’t be a fucking chicken._

They stop walking. And Shisui doesn’t even want to look, doesn’t want to see the fluffy fucking chicken Suou’s going to ask him to kill but — gods-damn it — but he has to fucking do this. If this is part of the price Shisui has to pay for Suou’s help, then — _fuck_ , he’ll praise this fucking chicken from here to the Reikai, will never go a single day without giving it his thanks for its life because it helped him save Itachi. And so he lifts his head and squints his eyes in the general direction of where he thinks the chicken will be and — 

And it’s not a chicken. It’s just...it’s just a tiny ass metal bucket placed a few feet away from Suou’s front door.

Shisui blinks a few times, not entirely convinced he’s actually seeing this right, but...

No, yeah. That’s...it’s just a fucking bucket.

He turns to Suou, a _what the fuck_ on the tip of his tongue, but the words get stuck there once he looks down and sees Suou holding a scroll out towards him.

“Here,” Suou says simply.

Shisui stares at it a moment. Then he takes it. “...what is it?”

“That,” Suou motions towards the scroll now in Shisui’s hand, “was the curse in your leg.”

Shisui imagines the confusion is quite clearly displayed on his face, but he still feels the need to verbalize his absolute bafflement at the sentence Suou just spoke. “The...what?”

“From when you kicked my house. It’s what I removed from your leg when you first came inside.”

Shisui squints, as if somehow that might make anything that’s coming out of Suou’s mouth make sense. “...what?” he eventually ends up repeating.

If Suou were the type of man to roll his eyes, Shisui imagines that he’d be doing so by now. “There is a warding on the house that reacts to chakra-based attacks,” Suou explains patiently instead, motioning back towards the cabin. “When you kicked the door, the warding was activated and it sent a charge of negative spiritual energy up your leg. I extracted it and sealed it in the scroll you’re now holding.”

Shisui glances down at the scroll, then back up at Suou. “...okay,” he says hesitantly. “So do I, uh,” he tries for a smile, waving the scroll in the air, “do I owe a debt to the gods for this, too?”

Suou’s lips thin. “No, the gods weren’t involved in that.” He motions towards the bucket. “You just need to put the scroll in the pale and burn it.”

Which...okay, not as bad as Shisui was expecting. So, really, he should take the win for what it is and shut the fuck up about.

He doesn’t. “Am I allowed to know why?”

Suou just shrugs. “It’s an old superstition. Humor me.”

Shisui still doesn’t really get it, but he acquiesces, nonetheless, limps over and drops the scroll inside the bucket. He looks back at Suou, waiting for the man to hand him a box of matches or something, but Suou just rubs his fingers together.

“By hand,” he instructs, and Shisui just barely holds back a scowl. It’s not that he can’t _do it_ , that’s hardly the issue, but it’ll take a decently large spark of chakra to get the fire going and Shisui’s still kind of extremely exhausted and would really rather just use a match but — but _fine_ , he’ll just be grateful that this isn’t a fucking chicken. So he crouches down, wincing the entire way because his left leg does not at all agree with the treatment, and reaches inside the bucket to dig his nail under the outside edge of the scroll so he can get a grip on the corner and —

“Don’t lift up the end of it,” Suou chides over Shisui’s shoulder. “You need to keep the scroll completely sealed for it to work.”

Shisui sighs, but he moves his fingers to the top of the scroll instead. He lets chakra spark underneath them once...twice...

The scroll ignites in a small burst of flame.

Shisui looks back at Suou, an eyebrow raised. “Good?” he asks.

Suou doesn’t answer him, though. His eyes are locked on the scroll, on the flames slowly eating away at it. It’s a bit unnerving, if Shisui’s being completely honest, but he doesn’t immediately concern himself with it because his leg is fucking cramping and so he starts to get up and —

Suou’s hand lands on his shoulder, pushing him back down with a surprising amount of strength.

“ _Shit_ ,” Shisui immediately complains, wincing as he’s forced to lean more weight against his left leg. “What —”

“Shh,” Suou says, and he reaches down to turn Shisui’s head so he’s staring at the fire. “Watch.”

 _What the fuck?_ Shisui silently groans. But — fuck, _whatever_ , if Suou wants him to stare at a fucking fire, he’ll stare at a fucking fire. It’s hardly the most offensive thing he’s ever had to do.

So he watches. And watches. And watches.

Suou’s hand tenses against his shoulder. “Do you see anything?”

 _See anything?_ “I, uh...” Shisui makes a face, squinting into the flames. “...no?” he says hesitantly. He looks back up at Suou. “Am I supposed to?”

Suou isn’t looking at the fire anymore. He’s looking at Shisui, that pinched expression back on his face. “Not necessarily,” he says slowly. Delicately.

Shisui feels the dread start to curdle again. “Is it bad that I’m not seeing anything?”

Suou doesn’t say anything. And that — well, _that’s_ not reassuring in the fucking slightest.

Shisui swallows and pretends like Suou’s not looking at him like he’s already dead. He tries for a smile. “I mean, you said it yourself — it’s just a superstition, yeah?”

Suou grunts. But he still doesn’t say anything, and Shisui feels his smile falter.

_To pay your debt._

“Is the gods’ price going to be that bad?” he finds himself asking.

Suou’s jaw tightens. Then he sighs. “I don’t know, child,” he admits. “It’s been decades since I’ve treated a Sharingan before offering a sacrifice beforehand, or even prayers. It’s why I wanted you to wait.” He sighs again. “We’ve found a combination that appeases the gods decently well, and it makes the price they demand in return almost negligible. But this...” Suou trails off, his eyes going back to the flames. “I don’t know what they’ll demand, now.”

Iron fists wrap around Shisui’s lungs, and he lets out a shaky exhalation, the air hissing through his teeth. He nods.

A few moments pass, and Suou takes his hand off of Shisui’s shoulder. “I’m going to search for the medication,” he says, starting to walk away. “Keep an eye on the fire. Tell me if you see anything.”

Shisui just nods again, turning his attention back to the flaming scroll. “Okay,” he mumbles.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but the scroll eventually turns to ash. And Shisui sees nothing. _Nothing._ Not even a glimmer or a hint of anything and so Shisui’s left sitting on the ground, his injured leg spread out in front of him and his chin propped on his other knee and he’s just staring. Staring and staring at this _stupid fucking bucket_ and wondering what the fuck he was supposed to have seen.

 _It’s just a superstition. It’s just a bullshit superstition._ But even though he thinks it, tells himself it over and over and _over_ again, he can’t shake the feeling that him not seeing anything is almost akin to a death sentence.

So he starts a new mantra: _better me than Itachi. Better me than Itachi better me than Itachi better methanItachibettermethanItachi._ He repeats it as many times as he fucking can, as many times as his mind will fucking allow. Whatever the price is, it’s going to be worth it. It’s going to be worth it, because better Shisui suffer than Itachi. _Better me than Itachi, better me than Itachi, better me than Itachi._

It manages to make him feel a bit better, at least.

Or at least until a foot suddenly lands next to the bucket. Then the mantra falls apart and Shisui finds himself straightening and wondering if he’ll ever feel _better_ again.

But Shisui manages to put the mantra back together, piece by piece. _Better me than Itachi._ He takes a breath. And then he looks up at Fugaku.

Fugaku’s not looking at him, though. He’s frowning down at the bucket. “What is this?” he grunts, nudging it with the toe of his shoe.

Shisui doesn’t want to look at the fucking bucket anymore, so he keeps his eyes on Fugaku. “I had a curse in my leg. Suou wanted me to burn it.”

Fugaku glances at him. For a second, it looks like he might actually want to ask what the fuck Shisui’s talking about, but he seems to decide against it and tilts his head towards Shisui’s leg instead. “How is it?”

Shisui doesn’t see the point in lying about it. “Hurts,” he admits.

“Hm.” Fugaku looks towards the cabin. “Suou didn’t give you anything for it?”

Shisui looks at the ground, the remnants of shame eating at him. He shrugs a shoulder. “He said something about painkillers,” he mumbles, realizing belatedly that Suou never actually came out to give him any. Part of Shisui knows that he probably never intended to.

Fugaku doesn’t respond at first, and Shisui thinks that might be as much as he’s going to say. But then...then he says something that sends electricity pulsing through Shisui’s veins: “I’ll get you something from Eri’s later.”

The _wanting_ tears through his chest with a fury and, for a moment, Shisui can’t breathe. He looks back up at Fugaku, and he knows his eyes are blown wide. “Really?”

And then it...it catches Shisui completely off guard, because Fugaku...Fugaku actually _balks_. And suddenly Shisui can see the expression on his own face, can _see_ the desire written plainly on his features and he’s — _fuck_ , he’s —

_“And what? Dealt with it when you weren’t high?”_

Shisui’s entire body goes cold. It’s almost painful, but he forces himself to start shaking his head. _No. No, no, no, no, no._ “It’s fine, actually,” Shisui breathes, clearing his throat. _No more._ “I don’t really need anything.” But his skin fucking crawls the moment the words leave his mouth and it’s a lie. It’s a huge fucking lie. _I’m a piece of shit._

Fugaku doesn’t say anything.

“How’s Itachi?” Shisui asks abruptly, partially because he can’t stand the silence but also because — _fuck_ , because he should’ve asked as soon as Fugaku got here, shouldn’t have been so concerned with his own fucking shit to not fucking even think to —

_Gods, I’m a piece of shit._

Fugaku’s answer is short and terse. “Fine.”

“And Auntie?” Shisui manages.

Fugaku’s frown deepens, but he doesn’t actually give Shisui an answer, because Suou chooses that moment to come back outside.

“I thought I heard you,” he says, and Shisui twists around to see Suou staring at Fugaku. He tilts his head back towards the cabin. “Come, then. I’ve finished with the preparations. It’s best if we clear him of his debt sooner rather than later.”

 _My debt._ Shisui takes a deep fucking breath, the words making his pulse hammer hard underneath his skin.

_Better me than Itachi._

And with that, Shisui begins the struggle to get to his feet. 

Fugaku moves, and Shisui momentarily thinks his uncle might offer to help him up. But he bypasses Shisui completely — he heads directly towards Suou instead, and Shisui doesn’t really know why he expected anything else, but he finds himself scowling, anyway. _Thanks,_ he thinks dryly, twisting himself around in the dirt to try and avoid putting any unnecessary weight on his leg.

Shisui almost doesn’t hear it over his own scrambling, but he just manages to catch the tail end of Fugaku’s sentence as he’s about to haul himself to his feet: “...go before the gods.”

Shisui pauses, and he looks up just in time to see Suou shake his head. “I already told you, Fugaku. Shisui is the one that brought Itachi here. They won’t accept recompense from anyone but him.”

“I let him come. The responsibility should fall to me.”

“It doesn’t. Shisui made the initial request, and so the gods will hold him responsible for the price.”

Fugaku doesn’t say anything to that. Or, if he does, Shisui doesn’t hear it. And so Shisui swallows past the lump that’s now bulging in his throat and returns to the matter of standing up.

_Better me than Itachi._

It takes a few more seconds, but he eventually limps over to Suou and Fugaku. Suou is the only one to glance over at him, the features of his face going soft. “Ready, child?”

_Better me than Itachi._

Shisui nods.

Fugaku still doesn’t look at him as Suou takes him by the shoulder. “Come.”

They walk back inside the cabin, all three of them, and Suou slowly leads Shisui to a small door at the back of the room. He opens it, inch by inch, and Shisui feels his stomach drop.

The room is small, dark. More a closet than anything else. There are unlit candles and incense sticks in the corner, a mat laid flat in the center. But the worst part — the _worst part_ , is that each wall is covered in a large, full-length mirror.

Shisui closes his eyes, and he forces himself to take a breath. _Better me than Itachi._

He moves to step inside, to submit himself to whatever the gods decide to do with him. But a hand on his shoulder stops him.

Shisui looks over to see Suou frowning at him. He doesn’t say anything.

“...yeah?” Shisui ends up asking.

Suou sighs once. Then twice. But he still doesn’t say anything. He just holds out his hand.

In his palm is a thin vial.

Shisui’s pretty sure his entire chest collapses. It’s not...it can’t be what he thinks it is, but...

“You’ll be going before the Kotoamatsukami for judgement. Even the Mangekyou struggles to behold them.” Suou tells him. Shisui looks up at his face. He looks older, suddenly. Much, much older. “This will help reinforce your eyes,”

 _The Kotoamatsukami._ The immediate disappointment is swallowed by the dread that washes through him. “Okay,” Shisui murmurs, taking hold of the vial.

“Once you go inside, you’re going to light the candle and incense. Then you take the vial. After that, activate your Mangekyou and look into the mirror,” Suou instructs carefully. “You are going to have to call the Kotoamatsukami by name to find them. You still remember them from your lessons, yes?”

Shisui nods minutely.

“Good.” He gives Shisui’s shoulder a squeeze, and Shisui can see the tightness in his jaw. “Fugaku and I will be right here. Come out when it’s done.”

Shisui hesitates, glancing at Fugaku. But his uncle still isn’t looking at him. “I don’t have an anchor,” he mumbles.

Suou shakes his head. And Shisui — Shisui _expects_ the answer, but it still hurts to hear. “You have to do this alone.”

Shisui hesitates. Then he nods. _Better me than Itachi._

He can do this. He can fucking do this.

“Well, then,” he plasters a lukewarm smile on his face. “I guess I better get this fucking over with, yeah?”

Suou presses his lips together. His hand falls from Shisui’s shoulder. “We’ll be right outside,” he promises again. And Shisui — Shisui knows he’s just delaying the inevitable, but he chances one last glance over at Fugaku before stepping inside the room.

His uncle’s arms are crossed, but he’s looking at Shisui now. And he gives Shisui one, single nod.

Shisui presses his lips together, and he turns back to face the room, limping inside. He listens to Suou shut the door behind him, watches darkness consume every inch of the space.

And he’s alone.

_Better me than Itachi._

The space is suffocating, the air warm and the walls pressing in on him. He slips the vial into his pocket and lowers himself slowly to the floor, pressing his hands against the wood and swinging his injured leg around so he at least doesn’t have to bend it when he settles himself on the mat. It’s still not comfortable, but — shit, he doubts anything about this experience is going to be pleasant, so he might as well suck it the fuck up now.

He takes a breath.

_“Once you go inside, you’re going to light the candle and incense.”_

Shisui feels for the corner of the room, where he remembers seeing the candles and incense. It takes a few swipes and reaching, but he eventually knocks against something with the edge of his hand.

 _Candle._ He feels up the length of it until he manages to find the wick. It takes a few tries, his fingers shaky, but he eventually lights it with a small spark of chakra.

Light falls across the room, and Shisui finds himself blinking against it. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror — of _himselves_ , really, hundreds upon hundreds of reflections staring back at him, but he turns his head away from it, forces himself to look back at the ground. Because he can’t afford to lose his fucking nerve. Not now.

 _Incense._ Shisui delicately removes one of the sticks from the small holder, grasps the tip of it between his fingers until it too starts to burn. He blows it out with a quick puff of breath, the smoke immediately rising up into his face, and he has to try not to cough as he returns it to the holder.

Then Shisui reaches into his pocket. And he takes out the vial.

The liquid is a pale brown color, thick and opaque. It’s not like any of the vials Shisui’s ever seen before, and he finds himself hesitating before pulling the top off of it.

_Better me than Itachi._

He downs it.

Shisui starts coughing immediately. The liquid burns a path of fire down his throat, spreading across his chest until it aches. “ _Fuck_ ,” he mumbles, using his shirt to cover his mouth.

The coughing eventually subsides, but it’s with a sickening twist that he realizes his eyes are going numb. They feel separate from his body, or like — like they’re not even _there_ , and he — he can’t feel himself blink and he reaches up to dig a finger into the corner of his eye but he _can’t feel it_ and —

Shisui forces himself to take a breath, forces his hands away from his face. They’ve started shaking again. _It’s okay. I’m okay._

_Better me than Itachi. Better me than Itachi._

He inhales through his nose, holds it in his lungs until it burns. Then he exhales it through his mouth in a thin, shuddering stream. _Better me than Itachi._

There’s some feeling at the backs of Shisui’s eyes when his Sharingan wheels to life, at least, a dull prickling as he adjusts the flow of chakra and opens that second valve so it shifts into the Mangekyou. The familiarity of the sensation offers him some comfort as he looks up and meets his reflected gaze, pulsing a large surge of spiritual energy through his eyes.

_Better me than Itachi._

And he falls.

Shisui’s never truly liked the Reikai. Even when he only had the Sharingan. But back then, he could at least admit that the realm was beautiful, the colors brilliant and electrifying. It was just...he couldn’t get used to it, to allowing his mind to wander among the gods. He hated listening to their whispers, hating feeling them flit around and through him. It felt violating, like he was opening himself up to something he shouldn’t and...and he avoided it. He fucking avoided looking into the Reikai as much as he fucking could, because he fucking hated being that close to the gods.

Then...well. Then he awakened the Mangekyou. And it got much, much worse. Because now, the Reikai is a literal fucking nightmare.

The colors of the realm disappear with the Mangekyou. It’s all a matter of polarization with these eyes, the way the spiritual energy vibrates within the realm. The Mangekyou renders the Reikai into a mass of amorphous, squirming shapes, lesser deities pushing and writhing against each other in an effort to get to any sort of open space. It’s ugly. Hideous. _Suffocating_. It’s all Shisui can do to keep his mind there inside of it, to not immediately deactivate his Mangekyou while he can still feel his fucking body and get the fuck out.

_Better me than Itachi._

Shisui stills himself, tries to ignore the press of the deities against his own essence. He feels his body take one last breath, relishes the way it coils inside of his lungs.

_Better me than Itachi._

He releases the hold he has on his physical self before he can think better of it. And it’s awful — part of his mind instinctively fights against it, yearning for the familiar confines of his body. But he pries his mind away from it, nonetheless, pushes himself further and further into the realm until he can’t feel his body underneath him at all.

_Better me than Itachi._

He floats for a moment, suspended in the space, gods pressing into him and around him. And then he forces himself to speak, to choke out the names of the Kotoamatsukami. _“Amenominakanushi.”_

_Better me than Itachi._

_“Takamimusubi. Kamimusubi.”_

_Better me than Itachi._

_“Umashiashikabihikoji.”_

_Better me than Itachi._

_“Amenotokotachi.”_

_Better me than Itachi._

Everything around him jerks, and suddenly it’s all moving, lesser deities blurring and sliding around him as he falls, back and back and back. Shisui struggles not to fight against it, struggles to give in and simply let the realm deliver him to his fate. _Better me than Itachi. Better me than Itachi._

But it’s hard. Gods, it’s fucking hard, because the deeper he goes into the realm, the closer he gets to the Kotoamatsukami — the more it _hurts_. The energy around him keeps getting stronger, pulsing and thrumming until it’s biting into him, chewing at the edges of his soul until he’s paralyzed by it. It’s unbearable. Agonizing. _Endless._

_Better me than Itachi._

He can’t immediately tell when he’s stopped moving. The realm is still spinning, his mind disoriented and overwhelmed by the magnitude of the power now surrounding him.

But then something moves in front of him. And Shisui realizes that he’s arrived.

_The Kotoamatsukami._

There are five of them. Shisui knows that. But he realizes with a dull horror that his Mangekyou can’t differentiate between them, can’t even begin to pick out one from the other. Not with how enormous their energy is, how _electric_. It’s blinding. Excruciating. Spectacular.

Shisui’s mantra shatters. _I’m going to die here,_ he realizes.

The Kotoamatsukami abruptly press towards him, and Shisui’s mind spasms, _convulses_ from the sheer power emanating from them. _“Your name,”_ a voice demands in that ancient, melodious language. And Shisui — Shisui _tries_ to answer, tries to project his name out into the realm but he — he _can’t_ , his mind scattered and crushed and _bleeding_ and —

_I’m going to die._

Displeasure exudes from the Kotoamatsukami, and it tears straight through Shisui’s soul. He feels himself crumble even more, feels himself disintegrating underneath the weight of their power.

There’s a low hissing sound, and suddenly something drives straight through Shisui’s mind, grips tightly at his essence and _pulls_. Shisui jerks, his mind thrashing against the assault. But the deity holds firm, reaches deeper inside and Shisui can’t — he can’t stop it, can’t do anything but let it rip him apart piece by piece.

_I’m going to die._

_“Shisui Uchiha,”_ the voice says. It presses deeper, and Shisui’s vision goes black for a moment, his entire soul shuddering.

_I’m going to die._

The deity pulls back slightly, and the Kotoamatsukami come back into focus.

 _“Our seals were used,”_ the voice determines.

The Kotoamatsukami shift. _“For the tensai,”_ a second voice chimes in. _“The one that has been marked by —”_

A third. _“— yes, the one Ukemochi —”_

A fourth. _“— the one that was assessed —”_

 _“— that one, yes,”_ the first voice hisses, and the grip around Shisui tightens. _“And now a price is owed.”_

 _“Owed,”_ the other voices echo, and the realm shakes from it, from their _anticipation_. 

There’s a sound, then. Low at first. Then rising. Louder and louder and louder until it’s a shriek, a cacophony of howls and wailing, sharp as glass against Shisui’s soul and cutting straight through him.

_“Demand a sacrifice —”_

_“— death —”_

_“— his eyes, take his eyes —”_

The Kotoamatsukami press further into him, gripping hard at his energy, and Shisui feels something deep inside of him start to bend. And he knows — he _knows_ it’s going to break if the Kotoamatsukami don’t pull back, if they keep _fucking pressing_ —

It bends farther, and Shisui’s awareness flickers. And he can feel himself...he can actually feel himself dying, can feel his energy ebbing and fading away.

Desperately, he clutches at his mantra again, revives it with a fury because — because this is worth it, it’s fucking worth it. _Better me than Itachi._

The howling doesn’t stop, and the Kotoamatsukami don’t pull away.

_“— have him drown himself in their river and let his body rot —”_

_Better me than Itachi._

_“ — his soul, demand his soul —”_

_Better me than Itachi._

_“— keep him in the realm —”_

_Better me than Itachi._

_“No.”_ A new voice suddenly says, and the Reikai shakes from the force of it. The other voices cease, and Shisui’s mind almost collapses in on itself as the Kotoamatsukami abruptly release him from their grasp.

His mind fizzles, instinctively tries to move and _get away_. But he’s drained. Exhausted. And he can do little more than twitch as the Kotoamatsukami approach him once again. _“Your energy...”_ that new voice says, and the Kotoamatsukami brush against him. Shisui’s mind shudders at the contact.

_“The energy —”_

_“— it is the same as —”_

_“— yes, it is exactly the same as —”_

_“You are one that possesses the Mangekyou,”_ the voice suddenly says. And the Kotoamatsukami press inside him once again.

Shisui can’t even manage to fight against it. _“Please,”_ is all he manages to get out.

The Kotoamatsukami pay him no mind, instead leaning in even closer. _“Another Mangekyou,”_ the same voice marvels, and the Reikai _thrums_.

 _“Please,”_ Shisui repeats, the anguish making his entire soul shake.

 _“Why have you not communed with us?”_ the voice wonders, and Shisui’s mind lurches as the Kotoamatsukami prod deeper into him.

_Better me than Itachi._

They’re gentler this time, curious rather than destructive. They touch every inch of his energy, spreading themselves wide inside of him until Shisui’s sure they’ve enveloped the entirety of his soul. They’re thorough, leaving no part of him uncharted. He doesn’t — he doesn’t know what they’re looking for, what they _want_. But they’re clearly after something.

They must find it, because they suddenly still inside of him. _“Channel us,”_ the voice suddenly demands.

 _“Channel us,”_ four other voices immediately echo.

 _“Yes,”_ the voice says, clearly delighted by what it’s found. _“Channel our power with your Mangekyou. That is the price we demand.”_ It presses closer to Shisui, and he swears the deity is grinning at him. _“Do you accept?”_

Shisui doesn’t say anything — _can’t_ say anything — but the Kotoamatsukami must feel his answer, somewhere deep inside his soul.

_Better me than Itachi._

_“Good,”_ the voice hisses, and the Kotoamatsukami slowly extract themselves from Shisui’s mind. And the relief — gods, the relief Shisui feels is all-consuming.

It doesn’t last. _“You will do it soon,”_ the voice tells him. _“Or the punishment will be...severe.”_ It seems to smile.

Shisui compresses himself, wanting nothing more than to leave. _“Okay,”_ he chokes out. _“Okay.”_ _Just let me leave. Please, just let me leave._

He thinks the Kotoamatsukami might scoff. They press against him once more, and then five voices come together as one: _“get out.”_

The Reikai abruptly falls away from him, and Shisui has no time to react before he’s thrust hard back into his body.

**Itachi**

Itachi was thrumming, practically vibrating with anxious energy as he sat on Suou’s table and quietly subjected himself to the man’s examination. He tried to keep himself still, _controlled_ , breathing in and out and in and out and in and out _and in and out_ but — but the deity kept squirming and jabbing at his brain and Itachi couldn’t — but he had to, he had to _ignore_ that, had to ignore _everything_. He needed — what he _needed_ to focus on was how he was going to get himself back in Father’s favor, how he was going to convince him to reverse his decision and allow Itachi to meet with the Hokage again.

He told himself that his father should reverse it — that he _had to_ , because Father couldn’t — Father couldn’t afford _not_ to use Itachi as a middleman. Itachi was the only Uchiha in ANBU, the only pipeline the Uchiha had to the village. Father _needed_ him. Father was just — he was just angry, lashing out in the only way he knew how. He wanted to punish Itachi, to make him regret his actions, and what better way than to limit his responsibilities? But he was bluffing. He was _bluffing_ , and once Itachi got this damned blindfold off and his eyes were healed, Father would have him go before the Hokage again. He would, because he _had_ to. And then Itachi could continue working towards brokering some type of compromise or agreement between the clan and the village so that this didn’t come to war, because there couldn’t be another war, _there couldn’t be another war_ —

 _“You need to relax, child,”_ Suou told him gently, his fingers resting on Itachi’s pulse. _“You’re going to end up inadvertently sending excess chakra to your eyes, and that will damage them further.”_

Itachi’s heart jumped into his throat, and any concerns about his Father and the clan was overshadowed by the immediate bone-shattering fear of possibly losing his eyes. His _eyes_ — his _gods-damned_ — and he couldn’t let that happen, he _couldn’t_ , so he needed to calm down. Needed to keep breathing in and out and in and out but — but the gods-damned deity wouldn’t stop pressing against his skull and Itachi couldn’t get enough air into his lungs and there was going to be a war and he was going to lose his eyes there was going to be a war and he was going to lose his eyes and the deity wouldn’t stop the deity wouldn’t stop _the deity wouldn’t stop_.

 _“Itachi,”_ Suou said. And Itachi knew it was a warning, could quite literally feel himself coming apart at the edges. But he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop it, and he was going to lose his eyes and there was going to be a war.

Fingers suddenly gripped his chin, prying his mouth open. Itachi instinctively jerked back, but a hand snaked around the back of his head, keeping him in place. 

_“Relax,”_ Suou told him. The hand disappeared from the back of his head, and something cool pressed against his lips. _“Drink,”_ Suou instructed.

It didn’t occur to Itachi to argue. He opened his mouth mechanically, let Suou tip a thick liquid down his throat as his thoughts spun around and around his head. _There’s going to be a war and I’m going to lose my eyes, there’s going to be a war and I’m going to lose my eyes, there’s going to be a war and I’m going to lose my eyes, there’s going —_

And then it all came crashing to a halt. His brain fuzzed out, his blood expanding in his veins until it felt like cotton underneath his skin. Any control he had over his body crumbled as his mind was flung into some horrid realm between sleep and consciousness. The last thing he was aware of was his body tipping to the side, something firm catching him by his shoulders. And after that, there was nothing.

...well, nothing except the deity in his head, at least.

It hasn’t left. Not even for a second. And why would it? It has free reign of his head right now, Suou’s drink rendering Itachi’s mind loose and pliable, snuffing out his own awareness to the point where he couldn’t fight against the deity’s poking and prodding even if he wanted to.

And Itachi...Itachi knows that he should want to. Logically knows that he has to. But he’d be lying if he said he isn’t beginning to feel... _complacent_. Like part of him has already accepted the deity’s presence in his head, has already welcomed it. Which is — it’s insane. Idiotic. And Itachi knows that. He _knows that_. He tells himself that it’s just because of the drink, that once he comes to his senses, the urgency to rid himself of this deity will come with it. He’ll regain control, and then he’ll keep the deity pressed to the far corners of his skull until he can finally deactivate his Sharingan and banish it from his mind completely. He will, because he has to. He _has to_.

...that’s what he tells himself, at least.

The lie is aided by the fact that his awareness is slow coming. It arrives in increments instead of in a flood, leaving Itachi’s insides numb and prickling. He’s not positive, but he...he _thinks_ he might be in his room right now. He’s assuming, more than anything, because whatever’s underneath his body feels like it might be soft and his head...well, it could be on a pillow. That’s what he imagines it is, at least. And he thinks a window might be open, because there’s an occasional breeze coming from somewhere off to his left and he can vaguely hear the clinking of wind chimes and there’s something familiar about all of it that makes him think _home_.

The deity likes that. Itachi can feel it, can feel the pleasure emanate from it as the thought of _home_ bubbles to the surface of Itachi’s consciousness. The deity moves quickly, lunging to grab hold of it before it dissipates underneath Itachi’s drug-fueled haze, wrapping itself around it and squeezing.

 _Home_ , it repeats, as if it’s testing the word, and pictures suddenly rise up in Itachi’s mind, images of his room and his house. There’s his bed and his desk, the stuffed shelf of books and scrolls beside it. He sees the hallway, Father’s office tucked away at the far end of it, and Sasuke’s room a few doors down. Then the kitchen, with the phantom smells of past cooked meals still hovering in the air. The living room and the couch they’ve all used as a bed at least once. The entranceway, complete with the pile of shoes and bags in the corner. Then there’s the walkway, the outside porch. The tiny koi pond in the backyard. The cherry tree, planted by the corner of the house.

The deity tightens its hold on the memories, pushing itself deeper into them. _Home,_ it repeats, and it sounds sure this time. As if it might understand. And Itachi can suddenly see the entire compound, sees it as it is from his perch on the roof, the sun rising on the horizon and bathing it entirely in light.

Despite himself, Itachi feels a warm contentment spread across his chest. _Home._

The deity stays there, tucked around the memories. And Itachi...he doesn’t mind. Because the longer the deity remains in that section of his mind, in that section of his memory, the more consumed Itachi is by the idea of _home_. It’s warm in his body, comforting, bright spots that spark in his chest and travel down to the very tips of his fingers and toes. _Home._

The deity walks through the compound through Itachi’s mind. It tracks its way to the shrine, to the river. The clearing in the forest with old, rotting training targets still hanging from limbs and hidden behind rocks. Yori’s shack. Eri’s shop. Shisui’s crappy apartment and his crappy, lumpy sofa that Itachi has had the unfortunate experience of trying to fall asleep on on more than one occasion.

Itachi expects the deity to keep moving, to maybe find its way to the police station next, or maybe even the house his grandmother used to live in, but he feels the deity hesitate on that last memory. And suddenly the warmth of _home_ is falling away from Itachi, is instead replaced by a burning anger as the deity releases its hold on it and wraps itself tightly around _Shisui_. The anger is abrupt, hot and slimy in Itachi’s veins, the fury at almost having his eyes — _his gods-damned eyes_ — destroyed because — all because —

_“Suou said it could get better on its own, but we...we wanted to make sure.”_

_No,_ the deity hisses, jerking at the thought and making Itachi twitch. The deity coils, and it tries to press deeper into _Shisui_ , tries to break through the anger and betrayal simmering in Itachi’s blood to get to something _else_. But the anger is a wall; the deity is struggling to get past it, unable to find any part of _Shisui_ that isn’t overcome with hurt and rage. The deity is relentless, though, and a low groan swells in the back of Itachi’s throat as the deity presses harder against his mind, trying again and again and _again_.

Something warm suddenly lays itself on top of Itachi’s head, carding itself through his hair. It momentarily distracts his foggy mind, soothes the anger dredged up by the deity. Another groan escapes Itachi’s mouth, and he instinctively leans into the hand — because that’s what it is, he realizes belatedly. It’s a hand.

The deity pulls back, dropping _Shisui_ almost immediately and grabbing onto the familiarity of this new sensation. It entwines itself around Itachi’s reaction to it, uses it to press into a new part of his memory.

 _Mother,_ the deity eventually decides, and Itachi feels a light pull inside of his skull. An image of his mother appears in Itachi’s mind a moment later.

 _Mother,_ Itachi dully parrots.

The deity presses against it, and another memory rises — an older one, one that’s hazy and blurred around the edges. He sees his mother, wearing a dress that he thinks might’ve been...blue? Or black, maybe? She’s smiling at him, her eyes bright and she...she _says_ something, he thinks. He can see her mouth moving, at least, but he can’t...he doesn’t remember what she said.

Itachi sees himself reach up to her, then, his small fingers wide as he stretches towards her. Mother’s smile widens as she picks him up, and Itachi feels his arms immediately go around her neck, feels himself bury his face in her shoulder and wrap his legs tightly around her waist. She hugs him back, squeezes him and presses a noisy kiss against the side of his head.

He thinks he might’ve been five.

The hand on his head stills, a thumb beginning to rub circles across his temple instead. And the memories rush forward, a flood of anything and everything associated with _Mother_.

They’re blurry at first, a cacophony of images with seemingly no context. Her laugh. Her smile. The press of her hand on Itachi’s back and her fingers brushing against his arm. He hears an echo of her voice, speaking at first, then humming, lullabies from her own childhood that she used to sing to them when they were small.

It takes a moment, but the memories start to clear, start to attach themselves to concrete moments in time. The bad fever he had when he was eight, how Mother stayed by his bedside for days on end, plying him with herbal remedies to soothe his aching throat and sore limbs. The soft gray blanket she laid on top of him, which ended up kicked away and tangled in Itachi’s legs a few minutes later because he couldn’t stand the warmth of it.

Her anxious fluttering on his first day at the Academy, how she had kept checking to make sure he had everything he needed, had his lunch and his bag and a pencil and a notepad because _“I know it’s only the first day, dear, but you still might need to take notes.”_

Mother’s face when he was sent on his first mission. The smile she’d tried to plaster onto it as he got up from the kitchen table to leave after breakfast, the tight hug she gave him before he walked out the door.

 _“Be careful,”_ she told him, and Itachi said he would be. Of course he would be.

Belatedly, Itachi realizes he can’t feel the hand on his head anymore. But he doesn’t think he minds, because the deity keeps rummaging through all of the thoughts in Itachi’s head labeled _Mother_ , and it warms Itachi to his core.

_Mother. Mother, Mother, Mother._

He doesn’t know how much time goes by, how long he spends encased by _Mother_. But the next thing he knows, a voice is speaking. And it doesn’t belong to his mother. “Hey.”

The deity pauses. It shifts, and _Mother_ is ripped from the forefront of Itachi’s consciousness. Itachi shudders as the warmth of it leaves his body, a deep hollowness invading his chest instead.

But the deity pays him no mind, instead forcing itself to the front of his mind, pressing itself against Itachi’s own burgeoning awareness to focus on the voice. _Shisui,_ it says. Hesitantly. As if it isn’t sure whether it’s right or not, whether it’s attributing the voice to the right person.

Itachi’s entire body tenses. Because the deity is right — that was Shisui’s voice.

The deity preens, and _Shisui_ suddenly returns to the surface of Itachi’s mind, dragging all of the anger that’s built up inside of him with it. The anger hardens in his lungs, makes it near impossible to breathe.

_My eyes. My gods-damned eyes._

The deity jumps on _Shisui_ , wraps itself around it and holds tight. But it doesn’t press inside this time.

That’s when Itachi realizes that Shisui’s started talking. “I, uh, hope you don’t mind, but...your mom, uh. She said she needed to go to Eri’s to get some stuff? So I, uh. I told her that I’d...you know. Sit here with you. Make sure you don’t spontaneously combust or anything.” There’s a dragging noise, like the toe of a shoe against the floor. “She took Sasuke with her. Your father had him stay home from the Academy for some fucking reason? Which doesn’t...I mean that makes no fucking sense, right? I would’ve figured he’d want Sasuke out of the house, but —” There’s the sound of fabric shifting, and Itachi can clearly picture Shisui shrugging. It makes something jerk in his gut, makes the anger in his mind flare. “Fugaku knows fucking best, I guess.”

_My eyes. You almost ruined my eyes._

“I, uh. I offered to go instead,” Shisui says. “I didn’t figure you’d, you know...” he trails off. “But I, uh. Kind of fucked up my leg? So your mom was pretty adamant about me not going anywhere. Which, I mean. I appreciate and all. It’s just...you’re sort of stuck with me, now.” He huffs a laugh. “Sorry about that. Since, um. I kind of doubt I’m your favorite person right now.”

The anger comes to a boil, and Itachi nearly chokes on it.

_“Suou said it could get better on its own, but we...we wanted to make sure.”_

“I, did, uh...I did pick up a peace offering before I got here, though,” Shisui says lamely, and Itachi hears the sound of plastic crinkling. “It’s dango. From that new place? I would’ve gone to Yori’s —”

There’s a spark of something suddenly, a flurry of snapshots that flit across Itachi’s mind, of dango and a bench and warm summer days with Shisui by his side — Shisui always by his side.

The deity suddenly dives, and Itachi feels it reach for that spark, for that brief flicker of happiness and warmth tied to _Shisui_ in Itachi’s mind. But it doesn’t get to it. Not before it’s drowned out by the anger seething in Itachi’s veins.

_You almost ruined me._

“— but he, uh. He closed early? Or something. So this, might...the dango might suck, actually. Which, uh —” the floor creaks, and limping footsteps start approaching Itachi “— I guess that makes it a pretty shitty peace offering, doesn’t it?”

Itachi’s mattress dips, close to his feet, and he can feel the warmth radiating off of Shisui’s body when he sits down. “Sorry about that,” Shisui apologizes. “But I just...I just want you to know that I’m sorry. That I didn’t...that I wasn’t _trying_ to fuck up your eyes. You know that, right? That I wouldn’t fucking...that I was just trying to help. And I know — I _know_ you’re fucking mad, and that you would’ve rather just fucking left it alone and waited to see if your eyes healed on their own, but...”

_“Suou said it could get better on its own, but we...we wanted to make sure.”_

“I couldn’t,” Shisui admits, and he sounds pained when he says it. “And I know that makes me a selfish piece of shit and — and I’m _sorry_ , but I just — I couldn’t just fucking sit around and hope for you to get better. Not when I could do something about it. And especially —” Shisui cuts himself off suddenly, takes an audible breath. When he speaks again, his voice is lower. Softer. Regretful. “Especially not when it was my fucking fault that you channeled the deity in the first place.”

The anger doesn’t dissipate, but it does falter. _Your fault?_

Shisui sighs, and the mattress shifts by Itachi’s feet. “I should’ve been there for you,” Shisui mumbles. “I should’ve been there to help you, and I...I don’t know how to explain how sorry I am that I fucking wasn’t.”

The pain in Shisui’s voice — the _regret_ — it twists at Itachi’s stomach, and he feels something bend in his mind, the wall of anger coating _Shisui_ cracking ever so slightly. And the deity — the deity wastes no time. It lunges at the opening, reaching its tendrils inside to stop it from crashing shut.

 _Shisui,_ it hisses, and a memory rises to the front of Itachi’s mind. The most recent one he has of Shisui.

 _“Why couldn’t you just wait? Why the_ fuck _couldn’t you just_ wait _? If you’d just fucking_ asked _me, we could’ve gone to the fucking Reikai and —”_

_“And what? Dealt with it when you weren’t high?”_

The hurt of the memory surges through Itachi, the remorse gnawing at him. It weakens his anger, tears straight through it, and Itachi feels the deity cling to the sensation, feels it cling to the regret that’s thickening in Itachi’s throat. It starts pressing, then, starts shoving itself against _Shisui_ and the sorrow that’s been sown there with a fury that shocks Itachi’s entire body.

 _Wait —_ Itachi manages, but the deity ignores him, just keeps _pressing_ , and Itachi’s entire body suddenly goes numb and he can’t feel his legs or his arms and —

 _Stop,_ Itachi thinks desperately. _Stop._

The deity doesn’t. It presses and presses and _presses_ , and Itachi feels his mind convulse and thrash and spasm under the pressure.

_Stop — stop —_

But then the deity breaks through.

 _Shisui_ explodes in Itachi’s skull. It’s a blizzard of memories, anything and everything tinged with _Shisui_ shoved to the forefront of Itachi’s mind. There’s Shisui sprawled next to him on the roof, his body warm and thrumming. And then there he is, younger this time, water dripping from his hair and a grin plastered on his face as he tackles Itachi into the Naka, cackling and nearly drowning himself in the process. And then — then Itachi swears he can smell the forest, swears he can feel Shisui’s calluses catching against his skin as he adjusts Itachi’s hold on a kunai. _“This grip is better,”_ he tells him, pressing down on his fingers. _“You’ll have more control this way.”_

Everything shifts, and Itachi is looking at Shisui next to him at the shrine, is watching his cousin howl over a gods-damned spider, of all things. And Itachi’s trying his damndest not to laugh, he really, truly is, but he can’t hold the mirth back completely, a smile twisting at his lips despite the terror still bubbling inside of him. The terror at — _crap_ , and Itachi suddenly feels Shisui’s hand over his face, blocking his eyes and pulling him back from the Reikai. But it’s not from his most recent trip there, Itachi realizes, because he feels himself reaching up, gripping and scraping the skin of Shisui’s arm.

 _“I can’t see. Shisui, I can’t see,”_ he hears himself say.

 _“Relax,”_ Shisui tells him, his voice calm and soothing. _“It’s only temporary. You’ll be fine in a few minutes, I promise.”_

Itachi struggles to get a breath in. _Shisui._

The memories come faster, then. He relives all of their trips to the Naka, all of the hot summer days they’ve spent lazing on the dock there, toes and hands coasting against the surface of the water. The countless times they went to Yori’s shack afterwards, planting themselves on the shadowed bench and eating dango until they were practically sick from it. It’s where Itachi told Shisui that he’d graduated the Academy early, and where he told him he’d made ANBU a few years later.

 _“Well, don’t you look fancy,”_ Itachi suddenly hears Shisui tease. And then he sees his cousin in front of him, leaning against the wall of Yori’s shack, his eyes trailing up and down Itachi’s new uniform.

 _“Shut up,”_ Itachi immediately shoots back, though he can feel his cheeks flushing underneath the scrutiny.

Shisui grins, holding up his hands in mock surrender. _“But you’re so_ official _now! Mr. ANBU Black Ops strutting around the compound in his fancy fucking uniform.”_ Shisui chuckles. _“When’s your first mission?”_

_“I leave tonight.”_

_“Shit,”_ Shisui says, the surprise in his voice evident. _“Well, the clan will be happy about that, at least. Everyone was worried that the Hokage just appointed you for show.”_

Itachi just shrugs, and Shisui gives him a small smile.

 _“Just be careful, yeah?”_ Shisui says. _“I won’t be there to watch your back anymore, so you can’t afford to be as much of a dumbass as usual.”_

Itachi ignores the dig. _“You could’ve taken the test, too,”_ he mutters instead, thumbing at the mask hanging off his hip.

Shisui actually laughs at that. _“You don’t really think they would’ve let me in, do you?”_ he says, jabbing Itachi in the ribs. _“Me? With these gorgeous eyes of mine?”_

Itachi pushes his hand away, scowling. _“The Mangekyou is an asset to the village. They would’ve let you in.”_

 _“The Mangekyou is a liability, you mean,”_ Shisui corrects. _“Besides, I don’t want to be an ANBU.”_

Itachi looks at him. _“No?”_

 _“No.”_ And Itachi can remember the change that had come over Shisui as clear as day, the melancholy that was suddenly exuding from each and every one of his pores. _“Do you?”_

_Do you?_

_“Do you think the village will ever trust us?”_ Itachi hears himself ask, the memory shifting once again. He’s in his house, now, standing across from Shisui. His cousin’s movements are slow, dragging, his eyes glazed.

 _“I don’t know,”_ Shisui says, and part of Itachi wonders if Shisui ever would have admitted that if he wasn’t still high.

_“Do you think they should?”_

_“No, asshole, what you_ should’ve _done is wake me up,”_ Shisui grumbles, and he’s not on the couch anymore. He’s on the shore of the Naka, squeezing water out of his shirt. Which, for some reason, just makes Itachi laugh harder.

 _“Why —”_ Itachi wheezes _“— why didn’t you tie the raft —”_

 _“I didn’t mean to fall asleep!”_ Shisui cries. _“The current was unexpectedly relaxing and —_ would you stop fucking laughing _— the current was_ unexpectedly relaxing _and I didn’t fucking sleep last night because_ someone _decided to bitch at me about submitting a mission report at fucking midnight.”_

Itachi puts his face in his hands, desperately trying to control his laughter and failing miserably.

 _“It’s really not that funny,”_ Shisui complains, practically pouting. _“You know what could’ve happened if I actually went over that fucking waterfall? I could’ve_ died _. And then who the fuck would you spend all your time bitching at?”_

Everything shifts. _“Don’t bitch at me, Itachi,”_ Shisui grouses. He’s in a hospital bed, now, his arm in a sling and his face bruised and his chest covered in bandages. This happened after a mission, Itachi thinks, Shisui’s entire team returning to the Leaf broken and tattered. _“I already know I fucked up, alright? I should’ve seen the fucking ambush coming, and I fucking didn’t, and my entire team paid for it. So we can skip the gods-damned lecture.”_

Itachi doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts against the crappy metal chair underneath him as Shisui prods at his IV. _“Were they after your eyes?”_ Itachi eventually asks.

Shisui gives him a rueful smile. _“Isn’t that what they’re always after?”_

 _“Can I see your Mangekyou?”_ Itachi suddenly asks. But he’s younger, now, his voice high and childish. The hospital bed fades away and he sees Shisui sitting on the floor, his legs pulled against his chest and his chin resting against his knees.

Shisui shakes his head. _“No.”_

Itachi jabs a petulant finger into Shisui’s back. _“Why not?”_

_“Because I’m not using it.”_

Itachi doesn’t understand. _“Never?”_

Shisui shakes his head. Back and forth, back and forth. _“Never.”_

The memory changes again, and Shisui’s there in front of him, even younger now. Six, maybe?

 _“No, Shisui,”_ Itachi hears his mother say, putting her hand on top of Shisui’s head. _“Itachi doesn’t have his Sharingan.”_

Shisui’s eyes go wide as he stares at Itachi. _“You don’t?”_

Itachi feels himself pout. There’s something in his hands — a ball, maybe? Or a stuffed animal? He can’t see it, can’t remember what it was. _“No,”_ he mumbles.

Shisui’s eyes manage to grow wider. And then he gives Itachi a toothy grin and practically lunges at him, wrapping him in a tight hug. _“Good!”_ he crows, right into Itachi’s ear. And Itachi feels like he should be annoyed but he...he isn’t. Because...

...because it’s _Shisui_.

The deity squirms, wrapping itself around _Shisui_ so it encapsulates it entirely. _Friend,_ the deity decides.

Itachi’s throat swells. _Friend,_ he agrees.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” Shisui says, and the proximity of the voice is jarring. This voice isn’t coming from inside of Itachi’s memory; it’s the real Shisui talking, the one that’s still perched on the edge of Itachi’s bed. “But...I’m going to make it up to you, okay? Your eyes are going to heal, and then I’ll help you figure all of this out. Fucking everything, okay? I’ll spend as much time in the fucking shrine as you want, and we’ll find out who the goddess is and who the deity in the Reikai is, and then — and then this shit with the clan and the village, and —”

_There’s going to be a war._

Something twists deep in Itachi’s mind. And, suddenly, _Shisui_ is jerked out of the deity’s grasp. Different memories rise up, ones tinged with blood and wails and — and Itachi sees a battlefield. Raw, broken bodies strewn across the ground, wayward screams and cries hanging in the air. And a man — an _Uchiha_ — groaning at his feet and his eyes — his _eyes_ are — they’re —

 _No,_ Itachi thinks, and he tries to shove the memory back, tries to get it _away_ , but the deity wraps itself around it, keeps it firmly at the front of Itachi’s mind. It prods at the thought, curious.

 _War,_ it says, and every cell in Itachi’s body cringes. Even with the drugs, he can feel the hysteria building underneath his skin, his entire body vibrating from it.

_War. There’s going to be a war with the village._

And Itachi’s not in a position to stop it. Not anymore. Not unless...not unless he can convince his father to let him meet with the Hokage again.

But Itachi — Itachi’s going to be able to. He _is_ , because Father doesn’t want a war, and Itachi’s the only means he has to stop one right now.

 _And if you can’t?_ the deity asks, evidently amused. _What then?_

 _I can,_ Itachi argues, but he can physically feel the lack of conviction behind the thought. It’s an empty assertion, a hope more than anything.

The deity must know this. It shifts, and more images of the war come to the forefront of Itachi’s brain. _War,_ the deity croons. _There’s going to be a war._

Itachi twitches. _No. I can stop it — I can stop it before —_

 _You can’t,_ the deity assures him, and Itachi can see the man _so clearly_ , the awful twist of his leg, the blood seeping through his shirt, and his eyes — his _eyes_ —

The deity squirms, and the face in the memory morphs. It shifts into his father’s, then his mother’s. Sasuke’s. Shisui’s. _There’s going to be a war,_ the deity repeats, and Itachi feels its tendrils wrap around his brain, feels them press _in_.

The air leaves Itachi in one large exhalation. Because the deity is right. _There’s going to be a war. And I can’t stop it, because Father isn’t having me meet with the Hokage anymore._

Shisui’s voice suddenly rises in front of him. “What?”

The deity stills. The memories fall away, the battlefield disappearing in an instant.

The weight shifts at the end of his bed. “Fugaku isn’t —” Shisui stops. “Why isn’t he having you meet with the Hokage anymore?”

 _Why?_ It takes Itachi a moment, but he eventually realizes that he must have spoken out loud. Which is — maybe he’s gained enough awareness back to actually talk, and so he tries to open his mouth, tries to say something else. But the deity suddenly moves, jabbing a tendril hard into the side of Itachi’s brain. His jaw locks together hard, his tongue freezing in his mouth. And Itachi can’t say anything.

 _Shh,_ the deity hisses.

Shisui’s suddenly talking again, evidently unperturbed by the lack of a response. “Shit,” he breathes. “That’s — _fuck_ , Itachi, I didn’t — I didn’t think he’d —” The mattress shifts. “Shit.”

Everything is quiet for a moment. Still. But the deity must still not want Itachi to speak, because it keeps its tendril pressed into the side of Itachi’s brain.

 _Why?_ Itachi thinks dully.

 _Shh,_ the deity repeats.

A warm hand suddenly lands on Itachi’s wrist and squeezes, momentarily pulling Itachi’s attention away from the deity. “It’s gonna be okay, Itachi,” Shisui says abruptly. “I promise. I’m gonna fix this, so you don’t need to worry about it anymore. Alright? Just let me handle it.”

 _How?_ Itachi wants to ask, but the deity doesn’t let him.

There’s a noise, then, something that doesn’t come from inside of Itachi’s room. He feels Shisui hesitate, his fingers tensing against Itachi’s skin. “I think that’s your mom,” Shisui says. “I’m gonna go check and see if she needs anything, okay? You just...” he gives Itachi’s arm an awkward little pat, and Itachi can practically see the smile making its way across his face. “You just stay here, yeah? Heal up. And seriously, don’t worry — everything’s gonna be fine. I promise.”

Shisui’s warmth pulls away, then, and Itachi would be lying if he said he doesn’t feel emptier without it. But he can’t protest, can’t complain, not with the deity still lodged in his brain. So he silently listens to Shisui leave, listens to his limping steps move across the floorboards.

The deity appears to listen as well, its tendrils coiling. _Shi-sui,_ it sings, and Shisui’s voice echoes in Itachi’s mind: _everything’s gonna be fine. I promise._

Itachi can’t seem to swallow past the lump that’s formed in his throat. _Shisui._


End file.
